


Portion Control

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: Survival Is Confusing [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:46:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3644037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixshot’s saviors have thrown his armor into a volcano, held him down, and tied him up.  He’s not complaining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Portion Control  
**Warning:** Sex, cannibalism, naked robots, people who don’t know what they want or how to get it. More sex.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** IDW, sequel to _Wolfsong_  
**Characters:** Sixshot, Terrorcons  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Eabevella has this slight obsession with Sixshot/Terrorcons, and thus a fic was made. Thank you!

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part One**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

Theoretically, Hun-Grrr knew what the other Terrorcons were up to today. They’d run their plan by him for approval, first. That didn’t mean he’d truly paid attention to what he’d been listening to. At the time, he’d been up to his fuel tanks in bargaining for supplies from aliens that he normally _ate_. He’d grunted vague agreement to Cutthroat’s proposal on the basis of it seeming relatively harmless compared to the alternative. 

The alternative being the Terrorcons not doing anything. A plan that kept his team of misfits occupied got an automatic pass. He was negotiating for whatever supplies their limited shanix could buy, and the unit needed to be _elsewhere_ while he did so. Preferably too busy to think about making their own fun. The last time he’d left them on their own without something to do, they’d come looking for him. Hun-Grrr couldn’t even buy stuff from that species _online_ anymore, they’d gotten into so much trouble.

Tasty species, though. It had sort of been worth the stack of murder and destruction of property charges, and they’d grabbed anything that hadn’t burned to shove onto the shuttle before fleeing from the authorities. They’d definitely gotten more than their money’s worth, having ended up spending nothing and taking everything. 

But piracy, however filling and profitable, wasn’t exactly restful. That had become increasingly important the more coherent Sixshot became. The Terrorcons thrived on rampaging throughout the galaxy, uprooting their temporary bases and skeedaddling out of the quadrant just ahead of huge ships full of angry Galactic Council peacekeepers, but their guest didn’t. Impatience had them chomping their many mouths, but they’d all come to the frustrated conclusion that catering to Sixshot’s needs like nannybots caring for a sickly weakling was better than a dead Sixshot. They liked Sixshot alive, weak or strong. They’d worked too hard scraping him back in that direction to give up now.

The extent of Sixshot’s injuries was well past their limited medical experience, and a lot of it was structural. Ununtrium undercoating on his protoform made repairs to his internals nigh-impossible, and his armature was forged from metals drawn from the compacted subatomic matter of a collapsed star. Seriously hardcore like _whoa_ kind of construction. They had his stats memorized because Sixshot was the baddest aft among badafts -- they weren’t fanbots, okay, they just really appreciated living weaponry, especially the type who brooded and pretended not to care but had the driest one-liners ever heard among Decepticons -- but frag if the Terrorcons knew how to repair his broken, busted, mangled, and just plain flattened armor. 

Yeah, whatever had stomped Sixshot and left him bleeding out in a crater? Hun-Grrr had a healthy respect for it. As in, he wanted to stay healthy. He’d respect it from a distance, given a choice. The Terrorcons had picked fragments of Sixshot out of the ground, metal snapped off the half-dead Phase Sixer like Hun-Grrr snapped crisps apart, yet their combined efforts couldn’t manage banging out a single dent in that same body, much less actually reconstruct anything. They’d been welding scrap metal over the worst of the rents to shield his protoform.

Sixshot’s best bet at recovery lay in letting his self-repair handle the damage, slow but sure. Lacking the medical equipment and skill needed to do more than patch over the worst injuries, the Terrorcons had substituted stuffing Sixshot’s reservoirs full of raw material and keeping him topped up. It worked, at least in a manner of speaking, but only as long as he rested. 

Hence the need for peace and quiet. Frequently running for their lives switched his systems from slowburn recovery to survival overdrive. His systems chewed through energy and metal alike to prime him for escape from any perceived danger. It took forever to calm him down again afterward. Even when Sixshot seemed calm, his processors were on high alert, extremely aware of his vulnerable state and ready to redline at the slightest hint of threat. Every time the Terrorcons abandoned their temporary bases and took off in the shuttle ahead of a Galactic Council cruiser, Sixshot remained tense for days. Those were days of regression instead of recovery. He tired faster, processed fuel less efficiently, and leaked like a sieve as stress-elevated fluid pressure put strain on tubes not ready for hard use.

Hit-and-run raids were all well and good for getting supplies without paying, except Sixshot got suspicious about why they kept knocking him out. There were only so many rocks they could pick out of his fuel lines as an excuse for why he had to shut down. Besides, eventually their luck was going to run out. One of the outposts they hit would get a shot at the shuttle. They could hide minor wounds and lie about where they picked up the (scorched) supplies while Sixshot had slept, but shuttle damage wouldn’t be as easy to keep under wraps. He’d get stressed out, one way or another.

Locking the Terrorcons in the shuttle for weeks on end was a recipe for disaster, too. They needed to land and build a base just to get out and _do_ something that wasn’t stepping on each other’s toes. It just wasn’t a bright idea to lock five action-crazed Decepticons in a shuttle, hyped up on combat to come or past combat or fleeing from combat. Hun-Grrr included himself in that count. Fortunately, he didn’t have to worry about Sixshot when the Terrorcons got violent; any form of excitement whatsoever exhausted Sixshot, but the Phase Sixer had a bizarre tendency to doze through their infighting or watch them bicker with the mild interest of a bystander. However, the shuttle itself couldn’t take too many more bursts of gunfire from the inside.

So, piracy? Not a solution. It ended up being the opposite of restful in any form. 

That left avoiding confrontations altogether. Which required being law-abiding visitors to whatever planet or settlement they ended up on. Hun-Grrr swore it was an obscure type of divine punishment for the war, or perhaps an Autobot plot to make them suffer. Ugh. 

Reluctant as they were, the Terrorcons found legitimate work to earn shanix and did fair trading to convert those shanix to the supplies they needed. It sucked and they loathed it, but they managed. They’d always been pretty good at scavenging, and that wasn’t too bad a job. Digging through old battlegrounds got them enough old junk to sell as well as kept them fed.

And Starscream said cannibalism wasn’t a solution. Ha!

Trying to control the whole unit while trading with aliens usually resulted in finding out those aliens were tasty, so Hun-Grrr handled bargaining for supplies. He hated commerce. Spending money for things he could just take irritated him, and waiting in line to buy stuff pricked his temper. No Terrorcon had patience in great abundance. Keeping the fraying edges of his in place while playing nice with merchants made the urge to smash and grab worse. He was in a foul mood by the time he tromped out of the spaceport settlement. 

The trek across the ice back to the shuttle hadn’t done him any favors. He was cold down to his powerplant, and he knew there was no relief in sight for that. The base’s heating was minimal. 

He _had_ been cold, that was. Either Blot had fixed the furnace while he’d been gone, or a heatwave had swept the area in the last five seconds. Maybe the volcano further down the lake shore had redirected to spill lava in this direction. Hun-Grrr would have a hard time moving out the way if it had. He stood stunned in the bunkroom door and stared.

The blanket-wrapped lump on his berth shifted uncomfortably. “You’re letting cold air in.”

Cold air. Yes. Ice planet. Winter. Base without a working furnace. Very cold. Was it warm in here, or had his internal temperature skyrocketed?

Hun-Grrr numbly stepped through the door to let it close. Two resets later, and his voice finally worked. “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?"

“…yes.” Sixshot eyed him warily from inside the bundle of thermal wraps. The Terrorcons had been using them to keep the ice out of their joints when they recharged. The Phase Sixer had apparently taken every one he could find in the bunkroom and constructed a nest on Hun-Grrr’s berth. Despite the cocoon of silvery wraps (and one fluffy yellow one covered in a strange ‘rubber duck’ creature motif), he looked curiously small.

Lacking armor did that to a mech. Hun-Grrr’s multiple mouths all went desert-dry yet watered copiously at the same time. Knowing his team had intended to strip their resident Phase Sixer to the protoform and having the proof in front of him was quite different.

His staring pressured more words out of Sixshot. “It’s closest to the shuttle.”

Hun-Grrr blinked at the wall. Okay, that made sense. His berth was the biggest, but it was also the warmest due to how they’d built the base cozied up to the shuttle fuselage. Shucked out of his armor, Sixshot had to be slagging cold right now. “You could go inside and cuddle up to the engine, y’know.” Even parked, the had enough systems running to put out a ghost of warmth. That was more than the furnace output today.

Sixshot busied himself burrowing further into the thermal wraps. “Didn’t think getting engine grease in open wounds was a good idea.”

Wounds now exposed to the world by removing his armor, and the Terrorcons would go to town attempting to do something about those as soon as they were finished with his armor, but a thrill of glee zipped through Hun-Grrr’s tanks. Oh ho, it was like that, eh? A sudden concern for cleanliness after months of their grubby paws all over him? Heh. He didn’t think so. 

Some mechs had trouble admitting they belonged in packs. Sixshot had been on his own for so long he probably couldn’t put into words what he craved. Hun-Grrr, on the other hand, was an old hand at bullying stubborn Decepticons into joining the herd and following his lead. 

The Terrorcons were a unit, but their beastmodes recognized the military hierarchy of their team as pack behavior. It knit them together. Even in the down times, the boring times between active duty when combat didn’t keep them together for strategic purposes, they had each other. Sixshot hadn’t had anyone.

Hun-Grrr could imagine it. He hadn’t dragged his group together by the scruffs of their necks just because they all had bestial altmodes. It wasn't even just because they fought better as a team. It was because they _did_ better as a team. Fighters without a purpose started to feel an aching void when there wasn't violence to fill their time. Hun-Grrr crammed a sense of unit cohesion into that void until his mechs fragging well swallowed it down and internalized it as _team_.

The other Decepticons thought it weird that they'd named themselves the Terrorcons, but they were a unit. They did stuff like that. They picked cool names, pooled shanix to buy shiny new weapons of destruction, and started fanclubs over an awesome Phase Sixer. Most importantly, whenever the fighting paused and the emptiness threatened, there was always somebody on the team that the faltering Terrorcon could go pester until it went away. Usually Cutthroat, for some reason.

Hun-Grrr hadn't been really thinking about recruiting Sixshot the way he had the Terrorcons, but he'd had a moment of hope when the Phase Sixer followed them to Mumu-Obscura. None of the Terrorcons had thought their idol noticed them hovering about him, not with how he'd gazed off into space like his mind was elsewhere waiting for the next mission, but then he'd come looking for them. They hadn't had the guts to ask why, but Hun-Grrr thought he might, just maybe, know why.

Especially when Sixshot ended up naked in his berth, asking without asking for company when he felt most vulnerable. Hun-Grrr eyed the bits of bare protoform peeking out from the blankets. Thermal wraps really couldn't be doing much to keep a mech Sixshot's size warm.

He opened a channel to his team even as he folded through transformation. *You couldn't leave someone behind to keep him company?*

Startled silence filled the line. *Huh. He wasn't supposed to wake up for another seven hours,* Rippersnapper said at last.

*Guess you're not as good as you said at judging how much chill juice to give him!* Sinnertwin immediately heckled, and they were off.

Hun-Grrr snorted, completely unsurprised. Doping Sixshot up enough to make him pass out was a notoriously unreliable method of forcing him into statis, but it was the most painless option. Phase Sixers just weren't made to be laid up. 

Sixshot didn't put up even a token protest as Hun-Grrr heaved up onto the berth and flopped down on top of him. The two-headed dragon wasn't quite large enough to drape over him from helm to foot, but the tail helped. He could curl around the exposed bits, for the most part. The exposed _naked_ bits.

Hun-Grrr’s mouths watered again. 

*Did any of you stop to get pictures? Of his injuries,* he tacked on hurriedly. *We'll need those. For treatment. We'll need to repair him.* Smooth recovery, but who could blame him? He was on top of Sixshot, but a Sixshot stripped down to the metal he was forged with. A Sixshot moving very intently between his legs. A Sixshot opening the blankets to get at the heat now radiating off of Hun-Grrr. Naked, thinly-veiled Sixshot pressed from throat to tailtip, knees and thighs moving against Hun-Grrr’s belly, crinkling the blanket between them in a maddening way that had to be unintentional. It had to be.

Hun-Grrr deleted a purring growl from his vocalizer and kept his hips still with an effort of will. This was _not_ going where his interface equipment thought it was. No, really, it wasn't. This was _unintentional_ erotic tease by blanket. 

*Oh yeah,* Blot said happily. *We got lots of pictures.*

*A collection.*

*We might even share 'em if you ask real nice.*

Mass sniggering from the Terrorcons. Hun-Grrr was in charge of a bunch of guttermechs.

*It took so fragging long to get his interface paneling off!*

*You don't even know, Hun-Grrr. So long.*

*Worth it.*

* **So** worth it.*

*Good thing he was out long enough to get pictures of his -- *

* **Enough!** * Hun-Grrr barked into his comlink, but too late. His team wallowed in ribald admiration of Sixshot's, ahem, equipment, praising Primus that nothing looked like it needed to be fixed. They'd looked, just in case. For posterity. They'd wanted to check for functionality, but none of them were into unconscious partners, and somewhere in their cesspit sparks they did have a shred of decency.

Or a fear of what Sixshot would eventually return on them for the molestation. Possibly a fear of what Hun-Grrr would have done to them if they hadn't waited for him.

He kneaded the thermal wraps under his paws moodily. Of course Sixshot had buried himself in blankets. They were a modesty shield. Hun-Grrr had missed out the naughty stuff by being a responsible member of society and going out to trade for supplies. Sixshot was starkers underneath him, and all Hun-Grrr had returned in time to see was mouth-watering flashes of protoform. Even the warm, squirming body between his four legs was muffled by silvery material.

His life was slagging unfair.

"Where **is** my armor?" Sixshot asked once he’d gotten comfortable.

Hun-Grrr craned his necks back to give him an incredulous look. "They didn't **tell** you why they **shot you up**?" His optics narrowed. "You didn't **ask**?!"

"What they did tell me convinced me I didn't want to be awake for whatever they had planned." Uneasy shifting made it clear Sixshot hadn't wanted to know more at the time. Ignorance was bliss, or it was until sick curiosity became a torment. "I'm assuming it worked, but...did they really...?" 

Hun-Grrr recognized that look. That was the look of someone finding out about Blot's bathing habits, or what the Terrorcons could fuel on if better food wasn't available. He queried his team and got the answer he expected. "Yeah. They really did gnaw you out of your armor." 

Wide optics stared up at him. "Uh."

He wasn't going to pass on Sinnertwin and Rippersnapper's ongoing debate about what the Phase Sixer tasted like. From the sounds of it, the rest of the team had gotten in on the munching enough to get a proper taste in, or some sloppy tongue in the case of Blot. Hun-Grrr struggled for a delicate way to phrase it and gave up. "Sinnertwin and Rippersnapper want me to inform you that you owe them new teeth."

It would take a while to resharpen teeth worn down to dull nubs. They hadn't gone directly at the impenetrable armor itself, but even the latches had resisted everything but outright chewing on them. Rippersnapper and Sinnertwin would be gumming their dinners for the foreseeable future. 

"Um."

"If you woke up sticky: sorry. Drool's an unavoidable side-effect of eating with our mouths open, we've found." 

"Urgh." Sixshot looked queasy.

Hun-Grrr's interface drive chose to pick up the unintended double entendre a minute too late. He redirected his optics to looking at the walls, the floor, the other bunks, anything but the wide-opticked mech bundled up under him. "So! Your armor's currently being thrown into the volcano." His mind emerged from the gutter in time to register Sixshot's utter dumbfoundment. He could have phrased that better. "On purpose, I mean." Primus stomping minibots, could he put his foot any further down his throat? "It's fine."

Much staring commenced. Sixshot didn't seem convinced that anything was fine.

Right, how about he try that 'explanation' thing again. Hun-Grrr thunked his chins down on Sixshot's blanket-covered chest and pulled in a deep breath. "We're using the volcano to get your armor soft enough to pop the dents out. The lava’s not hot enough to mend the tears, but it's softening the metal enough to reshape." He decided not to mention that reshaping was being done by jumping up and down vigorously on the aforementioned armor. Their metalworking tools were extremely limited, alright? Terrorcons were big advocates of the 'Whatever Gets The Job Done' methodology.

Sixshot blinked a few times. Hun-Grrr's interface equipment pinged hopefully. Total bafflement was a cute look on the mech. Actually, the whole picture was rather scrumptious. Sixshot and naked vulnerability punched Hun-Grrr's buttons. He _liked_ having Sixshot under him, fuel pump pounding in aborted alarm, wrapped up like a to-go packet. Edible, that was the word. Sixshot looked edible. Deliciously so.

Hun-Grrr was a great many things, but a saint he wasn't. He squeezed all four optics shut and reminded himself that no matter how many naughty pictures were being playfully thrown into his inbox by irritating teammates, Sixshot was in no shape to clang into next week. That _wasn't_ why the Terrorcons had peeled him out of that crater, and Hun-Grrr would _not_ accept a frag as some kind of impersonal down-payment on the rescue. 

It had been offered, and Hun-Grrr had refused. If he fragged Sixshot, it would be as an equal. Well, he'd accept being fragged through the berth by the Phase Sixer at full-power, but he wouldn't take interfacing as an act to be endured. He didn't think he could take watching Sixshot lowering himself to that. The very idea made him slightly ill, or like he wanted to kill something. 

His body thought it a wonderful idea, however. Hun-Grrr gritted his teeth until his jaw creaked. Somewhere under the layers of thermal wraps, Sixshot's port and cable were open to absolutely everything. He could almost smell them. His own set begged him to dig into the warm treat under him. Just a taste. A small taste. He could just...sample.

His forepaws flexed in the blankets. Both his throats worked in a hard swallow. 

A compromise was a good idea, surely. Sixshot was filthy inside his cocoon, filthy and cold. The others had drooled all over him in the process of stripping him down, but Hun-Grrr would bet a bag of snacks that none of them had thought to clean him up afterward.

"Turn over," he ordered roughly. 

"Why?" Puzzled, Sixshot hesitated. 

There was an almost audible _snap_ as the last frayed threads of Hun-Grrr's overtaxed patience gave up.

"I said," he arched his necks to snarl low and threatening on either side of Sixshot's head, " **turn over**. Or I will **make you**."

Sixshot's optics rounded. White light glimmered around the red where the frames opened wider than the lenses. Hun-Grrr winced internally, already berating his loss of control. Threatening to tear an invalid a new one was the best way to promote recovery, right? Oops. 

The Terrorcons were well aware that Sixshot knew down to his struts he owed them, he depended on them, and he'd awkwardly assumed the role of a Decepticon stuck in that subordinate, submissive position. They'd had a more difficult time adjusting to their new rank relative to him. Standing over their idol just didn't seem right. Hun-Grrr still didn't believe deep in his spark that he was more powerful than the mighty Phase Sixer Sixshot.

Sixshot terribly, humbly, intimately knew who held his life in their hands. His fans rattled, and he froze under the Terrorcon leader. A disobedient Decepticon soldier, even another Terrorcon, would expect a bite or beating as punishment from an officer like Hun-Grrr. Sixshot was clearly prepared for either. He didn't move until Hun-Grrr's heads rose to allow it. Then he rolled over on the berth at a speed just below a scramble.

Hun-Grrr's foreheads thunked down between Sixshot's shoulders. He tried not to feel the way Sixshot sank down as if trying to disappear. Fragging Pit. 

Realistically, he couldn't screw this up any more than he had. It wasn't the best consoling thought, but Hun-Grrr repeated it to himself as he started to groom Sixshot. 

The familiarity of the act settled his temper as fast as it had flared. It felt a little strange grooming Sixshot when he wasn't in his wolf altmode, but it wasn't the first time Hun-Grrr had done this. Admittedly, he hadn't done it since Sixshot had recovered enough to speak, but still. Grooming was grooming. 

He ran his smaller front teeth over ununtrium-coated metal, scraping delicate stripes through the thinnest layer, the polish layer. His fangs would have gone deeper, but even wounded and naked, Sixshot was too tough for Hun-Grrr's teeth to actually puncture. Instead, the shallow grooves through the topmost layer sent a signal to self-repair systems to pay attention to that area of the surface. Hun-Grrr's tongues, while not as serrated as Cutthroat's -- backward-pointed barbs, the #1 reason nobody asked Cutthroat for oral -- stimulated nanite activity as he rasped them along the back of Sixshot's neck. Stains, grime, and everyday dirt fell to the tiny nibbling bites working over the mech's protoform.

Hun-Grrr concentrated on careful grooming Sixshot's exposed head. It was kind of odd that his face mask didn't come off when the helm did, but maybe the latches just hadn't come off? Gnawing at Sixshot's throat in an attempt at prying the mask off probably wasn't a good idea. Hun-Grrr nibbled the frail framework sheltering Sixshot's brain module as he turned the problem over in his mind. There was no reason he couldn't work on it. 

Sixshot made a small noise, arms moving up the berth. Hun-Grrr idly stepped on his forearms, clawed paws pinning slightly larger hands down, and Sixshot stopped. The Terrorcon snorted approval into the sides of his neck, and Sixshot jolted a bit. Hun-Grrr began licking at neck cables next, working his tongues into the tangle of hoses, conduits, and wires to get at the mess of leftover fluids from past injuries and current state of disrepair. He curled his tongues to rasp at dried energon, one mouth stretched wide around the back of Sixshot's neck and the other nosing into the mech’s bared throat structure.

Another small, soft noise came from somewhere in Sixshot's vocalizer. Hun-Grrr paused, fangs dimpling the shock absorber cushioning the Phase Sixer's neck struts. "Rrrr?"

"Nothing."

"Rrr." Hun-Grrr mentally shrugged and started around the sides of Sixshot's neck. The nice thing about having two heads was that he could groom both sides at once. Too bad the mech didn't appreciate it. Sixshot hands were twitching under his claws, pulling back in tiny motions in time with the gentle rake of teeth on metal. When Hun-Grrr nipped under his chin in reproof, Sixshot stretched his throat out in surrender but arched up, pushing against Hun-Grrr as if to escape. Hun-Grrr huffed annoyance into the side of his neck from one side while getting a firm grip on that presented throat with the other head. If Sixshot wouldn't hold still for his grooming, then Sixshot would get held _down_ for his grooming.

Tsk. It didn't help. If anything, the squirming picked up. Hun-Grrr grinned. Was Sixshot ticklish? He could feel the Phase Sixer's fuel pump picking up speed, but the frustrated, stifled motions within the thermal wraps didn't smell of fear. Hun-Grrr knew what fear smelled like.

"Prrr?" he purred at Sixshot, teasing, but most of his attention was fixed on finding the latches to the face mask. It took a minute just to find them, laving his tongue over and over the seam where mask met jawline as he tried to feel out where it fastened. As he'd thought, the latches already had marks from teeth. The other Terrorcons had given it a try, but the latches had been smashed under the mask itself. Biting through them was inadvisable. Hmm. He nibbled, teeth throwing sparks. There had to be a way to get the mask off.

Sixshot kicked inside the blankets when Hun-Grrr tried forcing his tongue under the mask. His optics were wide but dim, strangely startled. Hun-Grrr cautiously released his neck, wondering if he'd cut off circulation somewhere, but Sixshot shuddered, gasping suddenly. 

Both of Hun-Grrr's heads snapped back. "What? Do you need to purge? Don't purge on my bed, ugh, hold on." His optics searched the semi-darkness of the bunkroom for a wastebin. Sixshot's tanks periodically voided all fuel. They hadn't figured out why yet, but they'd all gotten used to grabbing the nearest bucket to throw under his open intakes when he started horking.

Sixshot dug his face into the berth and snatched his hands in under himself the second Hun-Grrr released him. "No purging. I...no. I feel fine. Overheated."

"Hot, huh?" The motion shook the last layer of thermal wrap from Sixshot's shoulders. Hun-Grrr eyed them -- bare protoform, broad but tantalizingly naked, a weapon of carnage and fear at its most distilled -- and set to grooming them. His teeth worked in short, repetitive strokes from the arms inward, lingering on the joints. Sixshot had amazing joints. The mech was forged to transform six different ways. Hun-Grrr could spend all day slithering his tongue through the complicated swivels built into every transformation hinge, and he gnawed careful fangs over the joints themselves, teeth tips clicking off metal. He had to make himself move on, aiming for the nape of the neck where he'd left off grooming downward. 

Sixshot hissed, coughing midway through and muttering something about a hydraulic letting off pressure. He shrugged further out of the blankets.

Someone must have fixed the furnace after all. It _was_ warm in here. Hun-Grrr helpfully tugged the blankets down, muzzles nudging under the layers to sniff and breathe in deeply, pulling in air that wafted in hot drafts out from the cocoon. Sixshot writhed, caught between not fighting Hun-Grrr's paw on his back -- when had he put that there? -- and getting out of the smothering, unneeded, and unwanted thermal wraps.

Hun-Grrr put all his weight on Sixshot's back to hold him in place as he snuffled and nudged, pushing the blankets away to lie loosely on the berth. Ahhh, there. Unwrapped at last like home delivery of something too rich and horrible for his digestion, but so delicious going down. He took a long, self-indulgent lick up Sixshot's back. It tasted like cordite, burnt energon, and ionization from a discharged weapon. Hun-Grrr let the flavors slide down his throat and smiled, two mouths upturned as he savored. A taste. A sample.

As always, he couldn't resist going back for a bigger bite.

Sixshot arched into the sting, knees sliding forward to push up in a blatant offer. 

And Hun-Grrr hesitated, self-control at its limit. His other front paw rose, wavering. 

It took him a minute, but he brought it down on Sixshot's raised aft, pushing down. He couldn't open his throats enough to say a denial, not with the hot, oily scent of arousal steaming into the air in languid wisps from a port he didn't even have to see to know he want to gorge himself on. No. Not -- like this. He wouldn't. 

He wanted to.

Hun-Grrr straddled Sixshot's back, grinding against him, hips bucking, but he kept his panels closed. His teeth grazed over protoform. His tongue slicked back and forth over open wounds. He mouthed, licked, and groomed in mindless need, and Sixshot's small, panting sounds built up in helpless, mounting lust that matched his. Hands clenched in the discarded blankets. Hun-Grrr set his paws on them, claws tearing through the berth between the fingers but mostly just holding them still, holding Sixshot _down_ , and the Phase Sixer made a " ***!** " sound as if that were something momentous, something he hadn't been prepared for.

Hun-Grrr's back legs spread, paws planted on bare legs, and Sixshot's " ***!** " this time was closer to a glottal grunt. Hun-Grrr ground his interface panels against temptation and held on, growl climbing to a howling _shriek_. Sixshot twisted, jerked, and shuddered, thighs forcibly parted and shaking from it.

After the snap and crackle of overload died down, it took Hun-Grrr a while to realize Sixshot's optics weren't dark in satisfaction. That was statis, not afterglow. The bunkroom reeked of fragging and fried circuitry, and he'd just fragged a Phase Sixer into statis.

Well, then.

A hasty check on Sixshot's vitals told him the tactile overload hadn't done the mech any lasting harm as far as he could tell. He hoped, anyway. Hun-Grrr transformed and staggered away from his berth, burning up and on the verge of having his way the wall if it would get him off. Fortunately, he had options.

He headed out the door at an ungainly gallop. *First mech to 'face me gets the secondhand aftershock of fragging Sixshot unconscious!*

* **What?!** *

*You absolute rusted crankshaft-breaking bulkhead- **humper**.*

*Dibs!*

*Nuh-uh, get back here -- *

*I called dibs!*

*Not if I get to him first!*

The Terrorcons were stampeding back toward the base for what would inevitably turn into an orgy. Sixshot was knocked out and naked in the bunkroom. Somebody would eventually have to go fetch the supplies Hun-Grrr had spent the day bargaining for like people did when they were trying to do things the legal way. He’d have to supervise, or additional supplies would get stolen.

This was peace and quiet, medical care and teamwork, done Terrorcon style. 

Hun-Grrr could get used to being a fine, upstanding member of society.

 

 

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Pt. 2

**Title:** Portion Control  
**Warning:** Sex, cannibalism, naked robots, people who don’t know what they want or how to get it. More sex.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** IDW, sequel to _Wolfsong_  
**Characters:** Sixshot, Terrorcons  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Eabevella has this slight obsession with Sixshot/Terrorcons, and thus a fic was made. Thank you!

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Two**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

Coming online proceeded as normal. Every blinky light available swarmed his half-online HUD in a blinding rush of information about how very broken his body was, and then the actual sensor data took a welding torch to his mind. If he could move during those first few seconds of awareness, Sixshot would come online cringing from the backlash of his receptors burning in pain. 

He didn’t scream. It’d taken months to stop, but these days it would take more than the usual agony to force him online croaking the hideous screech of a half-booted vocalizer. After months of acclimation, he was far too used to the pain of open wounds to actually cry out. He just kept his optics offline an extra minute to dismiss all the strobe-light alerts and gather the control the necessary to deal with how badly he was wounded. He’d never been one to shy from pain, considering his main function within the Decepticon Phases, but there was a vast difference between what he’d felt during the war and…this. 

Pain didn’t bother him on the job. Sixshot fought through the pain, almost glorying in it as proof of his existence. Damage, he could feel. It disappeared almost too quickly after battle. Once it was gone, he had nothing to fill himself but the waiting for his next assignment. 

The pain he suffered while working didn’t registered past his concentration and combat-high as more than damage reports until well after the battles ended, and the medics preferred to keep him in statis or doped on painblocks. A woozy, pain-tetchy superwarrior wasn’t something a medibay wanted waking up before repairs were over. Most Decepticon medics, justifiably scared of him, opted for getting him repaired as soon as physically possible. The medibay in the base he he’d been assigned to had an entire repair bay dedicated to patching him up whenever he came back from battle, and they released him from care the moment they could. 

He hadn’t been left injured since the beginning of the war, and never like this. This was not the kind of damage he wanted to feel. The battle was over and done with -- apparently the _war_ was over and done with, and hadn’t that been a surprise? -- but he’d taken more damage than ever before. Being crushed alive like a tin can in a trash compactor wasn’t an experience he hadn’t thought he’d survive, but he had.

Instead of being a brief interlude of heightened sensation, however, it’d just kept going and going. This pain wasn’t something to tolerate while fighting, knowing it wouldn’t last. Chronic pain permeated his thoughts, wracked his body, and never, ever stopped. It had settled into a sort of background tedium, over time. It hurt too much to ignore but had conversely become so much of his life that he’d learned to live around it. 

On the plus side, it wasn’t permanent. He’d healed quite a bit in the past months. The ripped-open sockets inside his head didn’t bleed electricity and coolant around the circuitboards, anymore, and most of the wires in his spinal column had been stripped and reconnected the hard way. Some of the appropriate plugs they led into even worked, now. His T-cog had crunched unpleasantly some time back, but better to be stuck in rootmode than, say, his gunform. A self-repair system that stubbornly resisted his attempts to reprioritize its repair list was still a self-repair system that worked. Progress was progress. He was plenty grateful for how much he’d recovered. 

He could walk. No, seriously, he would never underestimate how wonderful a thing that was. Maybe he couldn’t walk terribly far without a rest stop or a wall to lean against, but walking was better than not. He’d had enough of not. He could walk, he could talk, and he didn’t leak too much if he kept his fluid pressure low, which he found more difficult than anticipated. 

Despite how the other Decepticons feared and avoided him, Sixshot thought of himself as a rather laid-back mech outside of combat. He hadn’t realized how much extenuating circumstances could change that. Hello, vast amounts of crushing damage leaving him pitifully weak? It was an ever-present stress, pain unending, and he found it difficult to be laid-back under that kind of pressure. His fuel pump hammered whenever anything beyond his control happened, so about every other hour he leaked oil from split tubes, purged energon as his tanks voided, or started shaking as the strain ate what little strength he had. Feeling it happen made him feel _worse_ , and there was inevitably a mess to clean up. He’d lost count of how many times he’d collapsed into a dizzy heap in the middle of a puddle of his own viscous fluids.

The visible, physical proof of his poor health caused him to stress more, and the humiliation of being unable to stop was the last glop of used oil in the wastebin. The Terrorcons yanked him out of his own spills before he could wallow too deep and drown, as much as he sometimes wished he would. Blot cleaned him up. Wash, rinse, repeat ad infinitum, because the holes perforating his body were healing at a glacial pace. It was a descending cycle of increased discomfort. 

But, hey, it’d been a while since he’d been left to the empty numbness of not feeling anything inside. He felt too miserable physically to drift away mentally. 

Did everyone have embarrassing flashbacks? He hoped so. He couldn’t be the only one who looked out a shuttle porthole at the stars sometimes and suffered a flash of embarrassment so intense he wanted to erase his memorybanks via blunt trauma facepalming. It amazed him how pretentious his past self had been. _’I am the abyss,’_ his aching metal insides. Feh. He’d happily trade infinite inactive duty for the ability to transform. Or even just to wake up not clenching his jaw against the pain. Bring on the void, _please_.

Since he didn’t have that option, Sixshot stifled a pained groan as he onlined. He endured the onslaught of error messages and agony, counting down from one thousand. If he focused on the slow, steady rhythm of a countdown, he could pretend it didn’t hurt as much. It didn’t actually work, but he clung to the pretense. It was a bit of self-deception he cultured religiously. It kept him from whimpering like a kicked cyberpup as soon as he came online.

He was _cold_. Everything hurt in general, but his neck had a major crick in it. _Ow_ , that hurt. Why had he gone into recharge hunched up onto his forearms like this? His forehead had been wedged against the bed at a weird angle, mask pushed flat. Cables in his neck twinged, vibrating painfully as he rolled over. He flinched and started stretching the kinks out. 

Counting down from to one thousand wasn’t enough. He sucked in a deep breath and held it, optics offline. Start at zero this time, and start. 

1…2…3…

He could outlast the pain. He was stronger than this. He was a Phase Sixer. He was a Warrior Elite. He was a Decepticon, for Primus’ sake. He wouldn’t let his ventilation system hitch and click, broken parts grinding in his chest as the pain surged. He would mute his vocalizer and keep it muted despite the queue of undignified, pained noises waiting to burst out the moment lockdown faltered. Delete the error messages. Dismiss the alerts. He could do this.

398…399…400! 401…402…

A cable in his neck popped straight, and a soft whine threaded out of his throat. For a second after the stabbing pain, there was a heady moment of release. The pain gripped his mind twice as hard the next second. Sixshot clamped down on his traitorous vocalizer and slowly turned his head the other way, trying to loosen the other cables.

Counting gave his short-term memory cache time to wait out the first blinding flood of pain-data and upload back into his CPU. He grimaced, carefully lowering his head back to the berth. His mind felt as fuzzy as the yellow blanket folded under his head as he picked through recent memory. No wonder he was so cold. Right. He’d woken up naked and abandoned without a clue where the Terrorcons had gone with his armor. They disappeared frequently, but they typically warned him beforehand. Sixshot had forlornly sat in the shuttle for a while, but he ended up huddling under a pile of thermal wraps in the bunkroom.

Thinking back on it, he didn’t know precisely why. He was a loner, or at least he didn’t think of himself as needing company, but he’d felt vulnerable enough being left alone when he was fully armored. Stripped bare to the protoform, he’d been a sitting target. Sitting in the bunkroom waiting for the Terrorcons to get back had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Then -- Hun-Grrr.

Ah. Well. That _did_ explain why -- or rather where -- he ached more than normal. That was an ache of mingled satisfaction, frustration, and overexertion.

Sixshot onlined his optics, blankly staring up at the ceiling as memory files opened and closed. Snippets of sensor data overflowed out of the files. They rolled through his body, calling echoes from his sensor network as he tested individual memories the way an incredulous amputee tested a reattached limb. Fresh welds held. Charge flooded down wires. Cables tightened and transmitted, controlling limbs and motor relays alike. Everything worked despite what his astonished mind expected. There was a limb there, whole and working; memory functioned exactly as it should, telling him what he could barely wrap his thoughts around. 

Had he..? No, really, had he? Evidence suggested he had, but the memories were so surreal they felt like a dream. He brought a hand up to cover his optics, thinking frantic denials that dead-ended in reality. When he couldn’t stop the perfect recall images playing back behind offline optics, he threw his hand out of the way in order to glare at the ceiling. The back of his hand thumped to the bed.

“Hnn!” Sixshot’s fuel pump attempt to leap out of his body as a sensor ghost swamped him in vivid recollection of exactly what it felt like to have that same hand pinned down under a broad, heavy paw. 

The paw wasn’t the only thing he remembered. Broad, heavy, with too many teeth, four feet, and two heads, all on top of him. Sixshot swallowed, curiously unable to move his arm. His other hand crept up to prod tentatively at his throat as if he could find marks to match the thrill of teeth and tongue that had stroked over tubes and cables. His fingers shook slightly. He swallowed again and curled his hand into a fist, refusing to acknowledge how even the brush of fingertips under his chin had his interface equipment pinging online.

Hun-Grrr had held him down by orders and bodyweight, nothing more, and brought him to a shuddering, gasping, electric-shock overload by touch alone. Sixshot’s optics widened gradually, locked on the vibrant memory of seeing his own hand flattened by the Terrorcon’s paw. A shiver rippled down his back, and he blinked rapidly. Ever-present pain subsided into the general ache, become a throbbing warmth that oscillated across him as his body accessed the memory of overload. Sensor ghosts lingered in the joints of his shoulders. It wasn’t pleasure, but it was recent memory. His body wanted to lovingly remember how much physical pleasure it was capable of. The peak Hun-Grrr had driven him relentlessly up toward had been just out of reach, pleasure slipping through his fingers as Sixshot quivered, only able to take what the Terrorcon on his back allowed him. He’d been driven higher and higher until the pleasure finally crested, and Sixshot’s hands drew into fists as he relived heady bliss. Just the memory wrapped him in secure, safe heat, a blast of physical sensation that _wasn’t_ pain, that _didn’t_ hurt, and his hips jerked sharply in the faintest echo of that searing climax.

After that: nothing.

Steam hissed as he breathed out pent-up air. He didn’t remember anything after overload. Had he passed out? His optics darted from side to side. The bunkroom was empty and dark. The blankets were tucked around him in a cocoon of silvery material, the fuzzy yellow one cushioning his head. No sign of Terrorcons. Either it had been a particularly convincing dream, or he’d overloaded so hard it’d knocked him offline.

Evidence suggested it was the latter. The evidence was simply unbelievable. He knew his memories weren’t wrong, but it was just -- he didn’t -- he had never --

Sixshot dimmed his optics and drew in a deep breath, daring to dip back into the memories. Had he really been aroused by Hun-Grrr pinning him down? That made no sense. He hadn’t even fought back. True, he knew where he belonged in the Terrorcon hierarchy, and Sixshot wasn’t one for bucking military authority, but the dull glow warming the bottom of his tanks had nothing to do with respecting a superior officer’s orders. Being ordered around had fed the fire in his belly for reasons unknown.

Hun-Grrr had gone beyond orders. Physically restraining him had been next, and Sixshot’s reaction to _that_ thoroughly confused him. He’d originally done as Hun-Grrr commanded because he knew better than to push the Terrorcon leader’s temper. Hun-Grrr was rough with his team, and Sixshot became more aware of how dangerous the Terrorcon leader was the more he himself recovered. Rank in the Decepticons wasn’t a set of hashtags and a salute. It was a ready fist and a grunt’s ingrained fear of officers. Officers who didn’t shoot first and ask questions later didn’t last as officers for very long, and soldiers who didn’t stand down as ordered were either scrap metal or promoted. 

Sixshot doubted himself recovered enough to put up a fight. Failing a challenge might result in Hun-Grrr beating more pain into him, or he’d be punished by cleaning duty again. Once was enough for cleaning duty. Sixshot had nothing but respect for Blot after having to do his job for three months. 

All of which made the spike in his core temperature extremely confusing. Accepting orders from a ranking officer? Okay. Getting a little turned on by Hun-Grrr issuing orders? Repressed interfacing drive, maybe. Being pinned down by someone touching in a not-quite-erotic manner all over vulnerable parts of his body? That seemed more worrying than anything else. He’d obeyed Hun-Grrr to spare his exposed protoform from a beating. He’d _continued_ obeying Hun-Grrr out of sheer bewilderment. The burst of hot, wet air against his bare audio receptors had shaken him. The threat should have been at the front of his thoughts, not the prickling skitter Hun-Grrr’s growl woke in his sensor network, but there it was. Anxiety had fed right into a flush of roused charge that he’d had no explanation for.

And it’d been good. Oh, had it been good. Frag if he could explain that, either.

Sixshot shifted inside the thermal wraps, abruptly too warm. He tried not to remember, but the more he tried to avoid it, the more he dwelled on the rush of excitement that had swept him as he turned over. His memory tenderly unpacked all the details, sending charge lapping at his circuits again as he remembered. He shifted again and tried to bend his rebellious mind toward understanding instead of reveling. 

Confusion for the order, of course. He’d been confused, anxious, even worried because he hadn’t known why Hun-Grrr wanted him to turn over, but the growl breathed into his audios trumped any argument he might have made. It’d been a wince-worthy reminder that weak Decepticons submitted before stronger mechs made them. The reminder had squeezed his spark inside him while he hurried to obey, chest to the blankets and hands laid in plain sight. It had been right there in the forefront of his mind when Hun-Grrr pushed him flat and begun grooming every inch of him. 

That made sense. Everything he’d thought had made sense.

Then it had _warped_.

Somehow, with the scraping nibble of sharp teeth twanging down his wires, Sixshot had forgotten common sense. He’d remembered submission, remembered that his place was wherever Hun-Grrr wanted him, but he’d forgotten why he should resent being forced down and touched without permission. Sixshot recalled his own lust-hazed thoughts and couldn’t figure out why he’d thought them. 

The last partner who’d held him down had been Overlord, and their trysts had been violent fights where Overlord pounded him nearly into statis before thrusting a cable so deep in his port the connection prongs snapped in two, or where Sixshot beat him down and shoved his own cable between absurdly thick lips until they split. Medics were on standby, waiting to swoop in. Neither Phase Sixer called for them, but when punches started getting thrown by titans, there were no secret confrontations. Everyone else just got out of the way and waiting for them to finish. The survivors got to be voyeurs of the culmination of the destruction. 

They exploded whole stations and fragged in the debris. They fucked on burning ships, stole power back and forth between them as one or the other grabbed the advantage of collapsing floors or someone getting in the way. 

It was an arrangement of convenience. Interfacing between superwarriors was competition, pure and simple. Whoever came out on top won, and the loser was taken as the prize. They were both fairly matched, so it was a toss-up who claimed whom. The fights were usually pretty different every time, but the fragging followed the same format: 

Sixshot ignored Overlord’s hoarse call of Megatron’s name when plugging into the glitchhead. He preferred using Overlord’s mouth just for that reason. The obsessed idiot couldn’t say things Sixshot didn’t want to hear if his mouth was full. Overlord, of course, preferred to bend him over a pile of bodies, helm pinned down by a massive hand grinding his face into the mess. He wanted it as raw and nasty as possible, but he didn’t like Sixshot vocal, and he never looked him in the optic. Overlord’s optics were always distant, looking off into a fantasy victory, and disgust made Sixshot struggle to punch him full in the fat lips with the last of his strength even while unfriendly fingers pried open his equipment hatches.

They killed so many Decepticons and destroyed so many bases with friendly fire that Megatron eventually had to send direct orders banning them from meeting in Decepticon territory. Sixshot might have been embarrassed by the orders, but Overlord had laughed, smile pink and wide as fuel bubbled up his throat. After that, Sixshot had been too busy yanking that mocking smile to his port to care. 

Overlord wasn’t an affair Sixshot was proud of, but nobody could mistake what they did to each other as a relationship. The fights had been more gratifying than the fragging. It’d been good to let go completely, meet his match, and either defeat or be defeated in the basest sense of losing. A frag afterward was for humiliating the competition, not getting off. 

Hun-Grrr hadn't overloaded. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather ran up Sixshot's back struts. It hit the air in his ventilation system, and his fans stuttered. The air he exhaled tasted sharp, the aftertaste of ozone after a lightning strike. Hun-Grrr hadn't overloaded. Sixshot had made a blatant offer to the Terrorcon, hoping in a vague not-thinking-about-it way that further submission would buy him enough favor that the Terrorcon would use his body to finish what he'd started. Hun-Grrr had turned him down and finished him off anyway.

Sixshot still couldn't put words to the memories turning his interface equipment to smoldering between his thighs. He squirmed inside the blankets, knees clamped together and optics dismayed as he stared at the ceiling in disbelief. It hadn't been violent. There had been no fight. He hadn't been thrown down, and he hadn't been forced into sullen, angry compliance with the victor's demands. 

Hun-Grrr had ordered him down, _held_ him down, and brought him to overload. A slick, hot tongue had turned his neck into a sensitive bundle of twitching, raw nerve-endings. Claws had torn the berth but been gentle on him. There had been a single, stinging nip to one of his shock absorbers, and Sixshot's port fluttered its latchkeys in remembrance. His weapons systems sank down on the priority list, activation somewhere far down under a wish for a repeat.

Yeah, no. He had no idea what Hun-Grrr had done to him, but violence hadn't been part of it. He hadn’t fought back. He hadn’t even wanted to. He laid there and taken it, stifling the urge to beg for more.

And it suddenly occurred to him that the pain he was so used to wasn’t there.

The memories ran charge through his wires from remembered pleasure, not pain. The pain wasn’t absent, but it only edged his thoughts. Blurry warm pleasure filled the memory files, bordered by pain pushed almost out of the picture entirely by the pulse of mounting need. The click and burn of Hun-Grrr nipping stood out so starkly because it had been a bright spark of pain amidst a rich, plush bloom of pleasure. 

Sixshot tensed. 

Pain shot through him, uncovered head to battered, bare feet. Nope, no miracle cure. He was as crushed as before.

He blinked dumbly at the ceiling as the pain ebbed back to tolerable levels. Dear holy Primus riding the moon. That exasperated paramedic -- Ambulon? -- had been right. Interfacing wasn't supposed to hurt.

Interfacing...might actually ease the pain.

The thought slowly swam up through his stunned mind, gathering momentum as it rose. 

Interfacing might ease the pain. It _had_ eased the pain. Pain had dragged streaking, startling accents through the grooming Hun-Grrr had inflicted on him, making Sixshot's fuel pump rate pick up even just remembering it, but the pleasure had blotted it out. The chronic, crippling agony he lived with every single minute of being conscious had been shouldered aside by a Terrorcon nibbling down his back and mouthing his neck. It had faded to almost nothing when Hun-Grrr pinned his hands down and done whatever he wanted to Sixshot's trembling body.

Sixshot honestly couldn't tell if the hard knot in his gut was carnal hunger or a craven need for relief. The idea of a half an hour without pain had to be seized. 

Half an hour? Twenty minutes. He’d take ten. He’d trade his dignity for two minutes of writhing and panting in pleasure instead of pain. Bonus points if Hun-Grrr was the one making him moan, but for ten minutes of blissful, sated relaxation? Sixshot wasn’t picky. 

Now, how to get the Terrorcons to frag him…

 

 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3

**Title:** Portion Control  
**Warning:** Sex, cannibalism, naked robots, people who don’t know what they want or how to get it. More sex.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** IDW, sequel to _Wolfsong_  
**Characters:** Sixshot, Terrorcons  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Eabevella has this slight obsession with Sixshot/Terrorcons, and thus a fic was made. Thank you!

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Three**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

Shuttles weren’t meant for prolonged spaceflight. 

The Terrorcons compensated for the small size and capabilities of their shuttle by planet-hopping. Land, refuel, resupply, clean out the filters, get back in, and hop to the next planet or waystation within reach. It didn’t do their makeshift spaceship any favors, but it kept them moving.

Unfortunately, denial was a state of mind, not an actual location to live in. At some point, the Galactic gearheads would figure out which direction they fled in and chase them down, if the shuttle’s life support didn’t give out first. Hun-Grrr grumbled protests but started opening messages from Chosen1@NoFactionsCybertron.net. New address, same old slag. Although Starscream’s threat-offer hybrids looked like viable employment from the _‘Do we haaaaave to?’_ perspective of Decepticons backed into a corner. 

Hun-Grrr passed on his decision to take the offer, except using harsher language and a lot more expletives. The Terrorcons groaned their opinions of Starscream in chorus. Many crude adjectives were used. Hun-Grrr edited most of them out of his acceptance message to Starscream.

It was a long way back to Cybertron, planet-hopping. The Terrorcons piled into the shuttle and started on the stop-and-go route back home.

Unspoken on the shuttle was the fact that returning to Cybertron was the best option for Sixshot. The Terrorcons knew it. They’d coaxed his recovery along as much as they could, but it would take a real medic to repair his T-cog. Sixshot hadn’t complained about his inability to transform any more than he’d said anything about hobbling along with one foot twisted sideways, but stoic badaftness didn’t make permanent injury acceptable. The Terrorcons had to get him to a medic. A Decepticon medic, for preference, but they weren’t above kidnapping a NAIL if the only Decepticon medics available did hackjobs. A hackjob medic would not be acceptable. No hackjobs for Sixshot.

Huff grunt growl. They weren’t _protective_ or anything. They were just defending an investment of time and effort. Yeah.

Luring Flatline into their grasp would have to wait until they got back to Cybertron. In the meantime, they were in the bridge of the shuttle arguing exactly how far they could push the engine without cleaning the filters. There was a fine line between maximum time efficiency and death when it came to engine filters. 

Arguments among Terrorcons involved beastmodes more often than not, and thus snapping teeth at each other. Rippersnapper took the floor by grabbing Cutthroat by the back of the neck and shaking him silent. “Look,” he said once Cutthroat stopped with the indignant squawking, “just land us on the next chunk of anything. Two hours, tops, I’ll have us back up.” 

Rippersnapper’s inflated estimation of his mechanical skills earned a sneer from one of Sinnertwin’s head. The other was still bent over the pilot’s console, but two heads meant he could multitask contempt and competence. “Four hours, not counting landing and take-off.”

“Frag off. Three at most!” Rippersnapper dropped Cutthroat and dodged the predictable swipe. “It’s just the filters, right? I could clean those in recharge.”

Cutthroat clicked his beak -- yeah, Rippersnapper had better run -- and transformed to kick Blot out of the co-pilot’s chair. Blot whined but didn’t protest the kick. Cutthroat could have done much worse and they both knew it. “Five hours. I want to scout.” That was Cutthroat Code for, _’I’m **this close** to a murder spree.’_

An open space mysteriously appeared around him. Cutthroat dug his claws into the keyboard. Nobody said anything about the divots left in the keys, because A. half of them drummed their claws the same way, and B. nobody wanted to set him off. Berserker battlelust was such a bother to clean up after. 

Into that open space stepped the one mech who never seemed to notice its existence. Sixshot leaned against Cutthroat’s chair and pointed over at the screen. “How about there? It’s big enough.” 

Either he didn’t know or didn’t care that the mech he stood over was an angry violent killer ready to snap. Did someone who operated on the scale of Phase Six notice what happened on smaller battlefields? Ah, scrap. Cutthroat could spend all day killing, and Sixshot would probably cause the same size carpet of bodies if he sneezed. A Decepticon could only _dream_ of blasting through planets the way Sixshot did. Sixshot destroyed entire fragging _civilizations_. Patting lesser mass murderers on the head was probably, like, an act of charity. A _’Mmhmm, that’s nice, good job, keep up the good work’_ moment of attention from the faction’s #1 weapon of mass destruction. 

Cutthroat melted a little as Sixshot put a hand on his shoulder. Just -- just wow. Sixshot, destroyer of worlds, was touching him. “Y-yeah. Looks like a moon or something. We can land there.” He tried to wipe the dopey smile off his face and knew from the doubled smirks Sinnertwin shot him that he hadn’t succeeded. “Get recycled,” he muttered as soon as Sixshot left to strap in for landing.

“Need that alone-time, eh?”

“Shut up!”

Dual sniggers. He hadn’t denied it.

It hardly mattered, seeing as the planned downtime didn't go as planned. They came in for the landing and saw nothing but dead mechs as far as the optic could see. Weird dead mechs. These weren’t standard-sized corpse.

"What the fragging Pit kind of mercury-sink back-aftward moon is this?" Sinnertwin asked, transforming at last. Piloting could be done in altmode, but not flying into a warzone. He and Cutthroat exchanged a look and started buckling their harnesses at the same moment. *Somebody throw some extra padding on Sixshot and strap that slag down tight,* Sinnertwin said into his commlink. *Could be flying into a hot LZ, here.*

*Acknowledged.* Hun-Grrr didn't ask what they'd seen. They'd passed through too many leftovers of the war for him to stop munching his pre-landing snack just for the possibility of a threat.

*Heh heh heh, strapping Sixshot down,* Rippersnapper gloated. *On it.*

Cutthroat and Sinnertwin blatted static on the line at him, but they didn’t turn from their consoles. Those were definitely dead Cybertronians down there. Pilot and co-pilot gave a curt nod to each other, and Cutthroat saw Sinnertwin’s left optic shade darker, turning orange-yellow instead of yellow-gold as his fellow Terrorcon’s paired CPU came online. Two heads were better than one even when he wasn’t in beastmode. 

Cutthoat pulled up the full navigation suite, throttling the urge to slave the weapons system over to his console, too. He'd get excited and start shooting everything in sight, alive or not, which was why he wasn't allowed to use that system anymore. "Huge fraggers. What offed their rusty afts?"

"Blot?"

"Preemptive death by body odor? Frag, wouldn't surprise me." 

Their mouths ran on a separate circuit as they scanned the landing zone for a threat. Except for the _giant Primus-damned corpses_ out to the horizon, everything looked okay. Anyone waiting to attack had to be hiding. They were fine with that. They’d scout later and let any lurking enemies take a swing at them. 

Most people considered ambushes inconvenient. The Terrorcons were of the opinion that some snacks delivered themselves. A surprise dinner and a show! How nice.

The idea alone had Sinnertwin and Cutthroat vibrating in contained excitement by the time the shuttle was officially down. "See any trouble?" Hun-Grrr called from the miniscule passenger hold outside the bridge. 

"Not yet!" Sinnertwin and Cutthroat yelled back as they scrambled out of their harnesses.

"Oh?" Hun-Grrr shouldered onto the bridge, looked at the screens, and processed the situation in the space of a syllable. "Oh. Ha!"

"Hunt?" Teeth bared and fingers flexing, the two Terrorcons turned to their commander. Their optics gleamed in hunger.

They had a front row view of Sixshot stopping dead in the door behind Hun-Grrr. His optics locked on the screens and bleached pale. Sinnertwin and Cutthroat blinked, stances loosening as curiosity pushed aside bloodlust. They stared. He didn't notice. He turned on his heel and limped away down the hall fast enough to nearly run Rippersnapper over. 

"Hey! What's the big -- “ The Phase Sixer was already around the corner and gone. Rippersnapper stared after him. “...deal?" He gave the others a confused look and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "What’s wrong with him? Purge-bucket’s by his seat."

They shrugged back at him, just as confused. 

So of course they didn't get to go for a hunt. Hun-Grrr left to track down Sixshot, and the rest of them milled around on the bridge making up excuses for why they weren’t going outside yet. The Terrorcons weren't naturally afraid of anything, but they were marginally intelligent. Intelligent mechs didn’t charge forward when a Phase Sixer retreated. There was a difference between fear and justifiable caution, after all.

They stayed on the bridge studying the screens and speculating on what had killed the giants outside. Plague was Cutthroat's favorite theory. See, he could understand running away from plague. There was no shame in being afraid of infection. The strongest Decepticon could be taken down by Red Rust as easily as the weakest.

*New plan,* Hun-Grrr said over their commlinks half an hour later. They snapped to attention, ready for action. *Clear the filters ASAP. Look for any fuel or parts lying out in the open. Line-of-sight salvage only. You see even **one** of those things out there so much as **blink** , drop everything and launch.*

*Uh...okay,* Sinnertwin said after a moment, but his other head asked, *Are you coming out with us?*

There were a few seconds of silence. *No.*

They gave each other funny looks. *Why?* They were carefully not asking why Sixshot had turned tail and run, but that was only because infamous Decepticon Phase Sixers didn't flee. The Terrorcons refused to think it. It was an insult to their collective pride.

Maybe that was why Hun-Grrr sounded so testy. *I'm keeping Sixshot from fuel pump failure, that's why!* He paused. *Keep an optic out for coolant. Brake fluid, too. We can use anything you find.*

The looks they exchanged this time were frankly uneasy. That didn't bode well. Suddenly, not even Cutthroat wanted to step foot out of the shuttle. *What crawled up his tailpipe and died?* he said to cover the case of heebie-jeebies creeping up his back.

* **He** says he's fine, but I've got a fluid pressure cuff and energon on the floor that says otherwise.* A tinge of exasperation entered Hun-Grrr's voice. *The last time I saw somebody leak from their optics, he was smart enough not to claim nothing was wrong.* 

Ohhh. That got a grimace from even Blot, leaker of dubious liquids from strange locations. The optics weren’t good places to gush from. 

*Is it Red Rust?* Cutthroat asked a tad hopefully. It would make _sense_ of everything, slaggit!

The pause this time was much longer, as if Hun-Grrr was busy balancing Sixshot’s pride and damage. The Terrorcons put an immense amount of effort into not trampling Sixshot’s battered pride. Warriors with more damage than common sense turned stubborn if offended. They knew that personally, from both sides of the issue. It was an odd dance they did, trying not to step on any toes. Hun-Grrr was probably nudging Sixshot into doing what he said.

Or maybe Hun-Grrr just didn’t want to tell them what had scared off a Phase Sixer. The Terrorcons gave the screens a deeply suspicious look. Sinnertwin used both sets of optics.

*Those bodies out there,* their leader said at last. *They're cityformers. Metrotitans. They transform into cities.*

That would explain why they were so fragging big. *Yeah, so?*

*Yeah, so he's kind of worried one of them might still be alive.*

*They look pretty dead to me,* Rippersnapper said. He squinted at the screens. *Very dead. Besides, who cares?* He laughed. It sounded forced and nervous. *They're too big to move fast. We could cut and run before anything happened.*

Hun-Grrr barked a laugh of his own, but it held a grim lack of amusement. *Look **idiot** , we peeled him out of a **footprint**.* He gave them a second to digest that and recall Sixshot as they'd first seen him, crushed into the bottom of a crater. A footprint-crater. A frighteningly deep hole with Sixshot literally embedded in the bottom. *According to him, these things move as fast he does, and that was when he was at full power.* Something he was manifestly _not_ right now.

The look the Terrorcons gave the screen this time was full to the brim with alarm. They exchanged it with each other, passing it around the bridge with the caution they'd give to handling an overflowing red-hot dish of acid. No wonder Sixshot had retreated. It certainly cast the corpse-scape outside in a different light. If Sixshot had gotten stomped by _one_ of these things, how well would the Sixshot Fan Club fare?

Probably not well.

*Now I'm hungry for pancakes,* Hun-Grrr grumbled. Obviously that was the worst part of imagining their smushed bodies. *Coolant and pancakes. Keep an optic out.*

*We'll get right on that,* Cutthroat said drily when nobody else spoke up. *You need a hand with Sixshot?* Hint hint.

*No.* The grumbling tone disappeared, replaced by a thick slathering of smug glee. *No, I've got this. Get to work!*

What a bastard. A magnificent bastard they envied, but a bastard. Did he have to rub it in? He'd be inside lowering Sixshot's pump rate while they were outside hoping the giant stompy mechs were really dead. Way to take one for the team, Hun-Grrr.

They gritted their teeth and resolved to clean the filters with one optic on the corpsefield at all times. Cutthroat drew the short straw and had to fly a perimeter. He kept low. The manic bloodlust simmering in his tanks had cooled to cold reason. He wanted a fight. Getting stomped into tinfoil wasn't a fight.

A couple of hours later, the filters were cleaned. The Terrorcons had retreated back to the shuttle bridge for a debate on whether doing a salvage run would be worth finding out firsthand if someone was alive out there. Stomp-happy metrotitans made even Terrorcons think twice. 

Hun-Grrr sauntered onto the shuttle bridge, smug self-satisfaction rolling out ahead of him in a smothering wave. “Blot. Cleaning duty, bunkroom.”

Behold the Terrorcons in all their glaring glory. All four mechs turned a united glower on their commander. He radiated smugness back at them. Blot snarled and ‘accidentally’ slammed an elbow into Hun-Grrr’s side as he stomped past, and Hun-Grrr chortled. The lingering good mood was a dead give-away even if he hadn't sent a ping banning them from the bunkroom an hour back. Rusted-out bumper-muncher beamed afterglow like a searchlight.

They glared some more. Blot’s footsteps clomped off down the corridor, just as pissed off. Yeah, uh-huh, cleaning duty. Cleaning duty in the bunkroom was Hun-Grrr’s means of telling all and sundry that he’d clanged Sixshot again. 

Raising the Phase Sixer’s fluid pressure during a frag resulted in the same mess as any other time Sixshot’s systems got upset, but the pressure-release afterward lowered his pump rate. He relaxed faster and for a longer period of time than when they tried simply calming him down. It felt better, too. They knew exactly why he’d suddenly started gruffly asking Hun-Grrr to ‘help him out’ so often these days. Fragging was a pain-killer and stress-reducer for him.

Hun-Grrr was a lucky slagger. Honestly, Cutthroat didn’t mind that Hun-Grrr was tumbling Sixshot twice a day. Any scenario involving Sixshot + interfacing automatically had his approval, and anyway, the Terrorcons had long ago resolved to be (im)moral support the moment Sixshot showed the slightest bit of interest in one of them. All of them would be better, but any of them was fine. Unf. Sixshot: crippled, weak, and still hot enough to spark off the whole unit’s frag-fantasies. Yes, please, take his pick of the herd.

Hun-Grrr getting his bolts torqued by Sixshot regularly? Okay, great, hold the applause until after the show ended. Except, of course, that Hun-Grrr kicked the other Terrorcons out of the bunkroom and _wouldn’t let them watch_. He just swaggered out afterward and told them to clean up the mess.

Cutthroat could cheerfully murder him at this point. Hun-Grrr disappeared into the bunkroom grinning, shut the door in their faces, and came out reeking of burnt copper. They couldn’t even _hear_ anything through the door, and that just wasn’t fair! There were no details shared, no hints dropped, _nothing_. He lorded getting laid over their head, and there was a certain amount of evil genius in turning that into a torture tool. Cutthroat almost had to admire Hun-Grrr for that.

The Terrorcons kept hanging around outside the door waiting, knowing they were being toyed with but unable to resist. Half of the time Hun-Grrr came out revved and ready to plug anything that moved. He smelled like Sixshot, crackled charge that tasted like Sixshot, and it was the closest thing any of the rest of them could get to actually _doing_ Sixshot.

The other times, Hun-Grrr came out sated. Like now. Ugh.

Cutthroat hunched over his console and punched buttons, muttering angrily to himself. Stupid glitchboard two-headed razorbeast freak. What did _he_ have that Cutthroat didn’t? Hmmph.

He side-eyed Hun-Grrr. No, don't come over here and get the smug all over him. No. Shoo. 

"Sixshot needs some help getting clean under his armor," Hun-Grrr said. A casual hand clapped down on Cutthroat's shoulder. "Go. I'll send Blot down once he's finished in the bunkroom."

Cutthroat stiffened. One the one hand: putting his hands all over Sixshot. On the other hand: Hun-Grrr throwing him leftovers. That was humiliating and awesome in one. It was like having his face rubbed in food he couldn’t eat.

As always, taking orders from Hun-Grrr filled him with conflicted feelings. He didn't rip Hun-Grrr's arm off and beat him with it, but he was tempted. He’d just learned not to give in to temptation. He liked his wings too much to act on impulse anymore.

Sensible Decepticons feared the wild, frenzied primal beast Cutthroat was at spark. Hun-Grrr had decided that fear was for other people. He'd allowed Cutthroat exactly one chance to unseat him as leader of the Terrorcons, and when Cutthroat lost the fight, Hun-Grrr had proceeded to eat the mech alive. Fully conscious, no pain patches, om nom nom kind of eating alive. 

Cutthroat had thrashed furiously, screamed death threats, and sworn vengeance the whole time Hun-Grrr munched his wings down to the structure spars. Surrender had been the furthest thing from his mind.

He’s changed his mind about midway through one leg. It was one thing to have a unit commander tell him he was dead metal if he disobeyed orders one more time. It was another thing to be informed that since he’d disobeyed, his new name was 'Lunch.' Disciplinary beatings could be shrugged off. Cutthroat couldn’t shrug off watching his wings disappear down the garbage disposal Hun-Grrr called a mouth. Cutthroat would never admit it, but Hun-Grrr intimidated him. 

His new commander had ignored threats, struggling, and screams alike as he bit chunks off and chewed loudly, commenting on the taste and texture as he swallowed. The commentary had gone on and on as Hun-Grrr gnawed him down to the struts one limb at a time. Physical torture aside, it’d been totally unnerving being told through a mouthful of his own metal that Hun-Grrr had been waiting to try his _’plump, delicious-looking thighs'_ since he'd transferred into the unit. The slurping sound effects as Hun-Grrr bit into a thigh had been full of unfeigned enjoyment, and that had been what convinced Cutthroat his new commander was the bigger, meaner, nastier Decepticon. 

He’d tossed his pride out a window and started begging for a second chance. Being eaten alive was a slow, excruciating execution. Cutthroat would much rather be on the eating side than the eaten. 

It meant he couldn’t tear Hun-Grrr's brain module out and beat him to death with it. The urge didn't go away, but Cutthroat had learned not to act on it. Not even if Hun-Grrr was dripping smug on him like noxious gelatinous ooze. 

He just curled his lip and said, "Yes **sir** ," making it an insult. 

Hun-Grrr had that look in his optics when Cutthroat stood up, however. It was the look of a mech deciding what sauce he wanted on his hot wings. 

Cutthroat booked it out the door.

He sulked his way to the bunkroom only to find that Sixshot wasn't _in_ the bunkroom. "Well, where is he?!" he shouted at Blot.

Who flung a damp rag at his head. "How should I know? Not here!" 

For once, the rag stank with someone else's goo. Sixshot must have leaked everywhere before Hun-Grrr calmed him down. "Fine! I'll call you when I fragging well find him, since you can't keep track of one half-dead recycled mess!" He whirled and went back the way he'd come, already pulling Hun-Grrr's frequency up. *Where the frag **is** he?* No way would Sixshot have left the shuttle with those metrotitans outside.

Hun-Grrr sounded too amused for Cutthroat's peace of mind. *Waiting for you in the engine room, duh.*

In the -- oh. Right. Cleaning meant either a bucket and a sponge in the bunkroom, or the airhose in the engine room. Or in the tiny medibay, but Sixshot actively avoided spending time trapped in there if he could move elsewhere. Well, now Cutthroat felt stupid.

*You could have said something,* he complained to hide it.

*I knew I forgot to do something.*

What a scrapwaste cable-tangle bin-head. *Aft.*

Hun-Grrr chuckled and sent a download packet as Cutthroat headed for the engine room. The size of it made Cutthroat look down in an appeal to Primus. What, did Hun-Grrr think he needed an _instruction manual_ for bathing invalid...inva...in...people with...stuff. Injuries and things. Invalidititidies. 

Buh.

The frequency was still open. Cutthroat had stumbled to a halt with his hand on the wall, optics wide and locked on the instructions streaming across his HUD. He reset his optics, his vocalizer, his optics again, and realized he'd lost his jaw somewhere back a few steps. His tongue had to be dragging between his feet. 

He reeled it back in and rebooted his vocalizer. *Sir?*

*Yeeeeees?* Hun-Grrr drawled.

*I'll be, uh, you know.* Apologizing for being an angry resentful glitch when his team leader was the best commander _ever_. This was the shiniest, prettiest, nicest gift he'd ever been given by anyone. Cutthroat's interface equipment sent a sparkfelt _'thank you'_ in Hun-Grrr's direction even though his vocalizer adamantly refused to say such wussy words.

*I know.* The smirk was clearly audible, and Cutthroat wanted to devour it. Hun-Grrr cleared his throat and added, *You have your orders.*

*Yes. I do.* He did indeed.

He closed the frequency and drew himself up, reviewing his orders with the single-minded focus he typically applied to mowing through Autobots. When he had them burnt into his mind, he went to find Sixshot.

The engine room was cluttered with equipment they didn't have room to store anywhere else in the shuttle. Sixshot glanced up when the door opened, but he seemed occupied pushing the air hose into one of his tires. "Hnn," was tired-Sixshotese for _'Hello.'_

Cutthroat grunted a greeting in the same language back at him. Sixshot didn’t look up again. Cutthroat’s optics glittered eager anticipation as he watched the Phase Sixer. Yes, stay right there. Good Sixshot. Stay there and air-clean while Cutthroat found what he needed.

He scuffled around in the junk looking for everything. The chair was no problem. Cutthroat set it in the middle of a spot he cleared. He couldn't find rope, but he found towline. Towline worked. Now, what could he use to make this fun...

Sixshot cast mildly puzzled looks at him from time to time while Cutthroat set up. Curiosity turned to interest when the Terrorcon dug out a canister of liquid nitrogen. "What's that for?"

"You." Cutthroat put his elbows on the back of the chair and smiled, teeth bared in enthusiasm his victims saw right before he dismembered them. 

"Me." Sixshot blinked at his smile. He didn't seem unduly alarmed, and Cutthroat's port expanded in aching admiration of that utter confidence. Sixshot didn't even register him as a threat, and it was the hottest thing Cutthroat had ever seen. 

"You." His teeth worried his bottom lip for a moment. Rein the libido in, Cutthroat, rein it in. He couldn't just pounce a Phase Sixer. Weak or not, Sixshot would probably put him through a wall on reflex. "Hun-Grrr sent me down to help you clean yourself up. Sit down." He straightened and gestured at the chair with a dramatic flourish. The manic smile returned, straining his cheeks with how wide it stretched. This was going to be _great_.

"Oh goodie, more maintenance," Sixshot said, optics wry. His life nowadays cycled from repairs to maintenance to cleaning up the mess he made when both failed to fix him, and then back around he went.

Cutthroat turned away, gathering up the towline. The chair creaked behind him. A warm flutter of triumph filled his spark, flexing his port latchkeys as slick heat pulsed up inside him. Sixshot _trusted_ him. He followed his directions. Okay, it was more cooperation than obedience, but Cutthroat could easily make the connection to how the Terrorcons had trusted Sixshot back on Mumu-Obscura. They'd trusted him to choose them over the Reapers, because Decepticons didn't do loyalty or anything mushy like that, but Decepticons did --

Well. They did whatever it was that they were doing.

Only more fun, because Cutthroat had orders to make it so. Optics more than a little mad, he looped the towline into a sliding knot and tapped Sixshot on the shoulder. "Lemme have your hands for a second."

If Sixshot didn't trust him not to take advantage, or frag, maybe if Sixshot were used to thinking like a genericon, he probably wouldn't have shrugged and put his hands back. Cutthroat grinned so wide his face hurt and slid the knot around them. Most genericons knew that sitting on a chair in a small room with someone standing behind them didn’t end well. 

"What are you doing?" Sixshot asked, tugging curiously against the pressure holding his wrists together. 

"I," Cutthroat said as he tightened the knot and quickly ran the towline under the chair to the front, "am tying you up." He looped the towline around Sixshot's ankle and the leg of the chair, pulling it tight. He looked up and saw a dozen delighted Cutthroats grinning back at him from Sixshot's cracked optic. 

"You're...what? Why?"

He almost laughed at loud at Sixshot's confusion. It was endearingly innocent. The towline knotted around knee and chair leg, and Cutthroat ran the towline over to the other front chair leg. He had to wedge himself between Sixshot's legs to hold them apart, and his wings arched off his back as long legs tried to close around him. Sixshot’s legs. Mmm. Still not strong enough to crush him to death between them, but he shivered at the potential. 

Back to business. Daydream later. 

"I'm tying you up," he said matter-of-factly, "so I can clean you." Cutthroat could tell Sixshot actually believed him for half a second. Half a second was enough to get the other knee tied into place. From there, it was fast work to get the ankle, and the end of the towline hooked neatly back onto the knot around Sixshot's wrists.

Leaving Sixshot tied to the chair, knees spread wide. He looked thoroughly baffled. "You must be joking. What are you doing?" Stunned optics blinked and narrowed. Sixshot might be a bit naïve when it came to standard dangers of the Decepticon army, but he caught on fast. "Very funny, Cutthroat, but **I’m not laughing**." 

A flash of rage lit Sixshot’s optics crimson, and pure fear stabbed Cutthroat from wingtip to wingtip. He backpedalled in terrified retreat as Sixshot snarled and started up from the chair. He was going to _die_ , murdered horribly where he stood!

The towline held.

The chair rattled as the Phase Sixer fell back down into it. Sixshot jerked at his tied wrists, rage doused by sudden misgiving. Kicking caused the chair to do a bouncing sort of dance across the floor chair, and Cutthroat’s arms slowly dropped from defending his head. He observed Sixshot’s hips gyrating with much interest. 

"What **is** this?" Sixshot glanced around the room, finally taking in where he was and who he was with. It wasn’t usually a concern, but in the context of his injuries, he was suddenly ultra-aware of Cutthroat’s smirk. “Cutthroat. Why did you tie me up?” A rising sense of alarm flattened his voice, changing the aggressive demand into a wary question. 

Scare over, the Terrorcon stood there grinning at him. Cutthroat could almost see the situation sink in. Sixshot was a Phase Sixer, but he was also a severely damaged mech running at the lowest end of his strength. The towline was used for securing salvage for towing through space. In his condition, Sixshot couldn’t break it, and he knew it.

The door was closed. He was tied down. A stronger Decepticon held him captive, at his mercy. Cutthroat stood there, disturbing grin in full force, and lack of experience in this arena didn’t mean ignorance of what happened here.

Sixshot eased back in the chair and deliberately forced the tension out of his joints. Oil dribbled down his shoulder as his fuel pump accelerated, but he had no intention of making this worse for himself. When Cutthroat stooped over him and cupped a hand between spread thighs, the equipment hatch _snickt_ ed aside before he touched it. 

He turned his head away and stared fixedly at the engine. "Don't have to tie me," he said quietly, sounding resigned. "I'm not a fool. I won’t fight back." He could fight, but what was the point? He owed the Terrorcons. This was as good a way to pay the debt as any.

His open submission might have sexy if the port under his hatch wasn’t completely inert. Not a trace of charge warmed Cutthroat’s palm. Cutthroat's cable deactivated in a sad blurt of diffused charge, and the Terrorcon winced. He’d seen thinner armor on a fortress. Sixshot’s optics were dull and resigned. So much for the surprise interfacing scenario. Sexytimes had just become extremely awkward. Sixshot was about as into this as mechanic was into a lube job.

Hun-Grrr had been right. Sixshot had been waiting for the Terrorcons to turn on him the entire time, hadn't he?

That stung.

Cutthroat pushed the sting away, burying it in self-assurance. Sixshot just had the wrong idea! Ha ha, just a misunderstanding. "Hun-Grrr really did send me down here to clean you up," Cutthroat rushed out. He scooped the canister of liquid nitrogen off the floor and brandished it, smile turning brittle around the edges. Just a misunderstanding, that was all. Cutthroat would never betray him that way. 

Ahem. Not that he was any less a Decepticon or anything. He just wouldn’t do that. It wasn’t fair that Sixshot automatically assumed that of the Terrorcons. It just wasn’t.

"He kind of said you might kind of be into restraints and I kind of thought we could kind of have some fun, but I don’t have my spark set on it. I can cross it off the list if you don't like it. It's not a big deal." Cutthroat shrugged, reaching for casual he most definitely didn't feel and swallowing down a niggling sense of hurt. 

Also a mouthful of lust. He really, really wanted to burrow between Sixshot's thighs and take what was offered because _oh Primus_ that was _Sixshot's port_ and this was proof that sacrificing mechs to Primus really did work because, no slag, that really was _Sixshot's fragging port_. Please, oh please let him not have done everything wrong to get access to it. There was a world of difference between getting a shot at Sixshot's port and getting a shot at Sixshot. Cutthroat's spark tried to strangle him as he made himself hold back for the sake of that difference.

Sixshot blinked. He looked sidelong at Cutthroat, unsure. “Hun-Grrr said what?”

Cutthroat held the universe’s briefest debate with tact. It lost. “He kind of said to come down here and ‘face you using anything but my plug or my port,” he said bluntly, then looked down at his hands. “Or my hands, but he kind of just meant no fingering, I think.” Which was a shame, because he loved using his claws on a good, hot port. The other Terrorcons were used to cuts in tender areas. “But he has a list he’s made of what you like, and I kind of thought that tying you up was kind of close to holding you down, so I kind of thought...give it a try?” He pasted a bright, hopeful smile on. He knew that look. Whatever he’d said had struck a nerve, and riled was better than apathetic acceptance.

“No cabling.”

“Yeah, basically.”

"None."

Cutthroat had no idea what he'd said to make Sixshot angry, but he would gladly pitch Hun-Grrr under the bus. "It's in my orders! Direct from Hun-Grrr! No plugging, you **or** me, and no hands." He held his hands up. 

Sixshot turned his head back toward Cutthroat, and the seething anger in the Phase Sixer’s optics was the best thing he’d ever seen. “Are you seriously telling me that he’s been **connect-teasing** me this whole time?” 

That gave him pause. Hun-Grrr hadn't been hardlining Sixshot? _At all?_ "I...guess? I kind of I don't know what he's been doing with you -- "

"He hasn't been plugging me!" And dear Cybertron did Sixshot sound indignant about that. "He keeps dodging my -- I thought he just didn't understand I want him to -- " 

Cutthroat's too-interested stare shut the Phase Sixer up. Sixshot cut off the rest of his complaint and growled his frustration out. The towline strained as he pulled against it for a minute, but something popped in his midsection, and he stopped dead. His right optic twitched, but he just glared at the floor.

"So." Cutthroat reset his vocalizer. A smile worked its way across his face. He stepped closer, stopping between Sixshot's spread knees. "Sooooo. What you're kind of saying is that you kind of want somebody to stuff a connector up your port?" Sixshot's optics jumped up to his, and Cutthroat leered. "Because you're kind of in no position to tell me what to do. In fact," he knelt, falling down to his knees slow enough that Sixshot could really see where this was going, "I think you're kind of going to take what I do to you and like it."

A whiff of heat and charge wavered upward from between Sixshot's thighs. Cutthroat grinned like a lunatic at the thumping thrum of a damaged powerplant kicking it up a notch. Now, _that_ was a good sign. 

They still weren't back on solid ground, however. Sixshot's optics were an uneasy red. Understandable. Feeling helpless and _being_ helpless were vastly different, and Cutthroat could see how the turn-off/turn-on switch could happen. He pulled his orders up on his HUD and ruthlessly weeded through Hun-Grrr's list. He wasn't going to give up on the towline yet, but he had a few options.

Sitting down, he put the canister of liquid nitrogen on the floor and wiggled his fingers up at Sixshot. His claws caught the light. "Hun-Grrr said no hands, but I've got some extras."

His claws screeched across metal. Sixshot jolted, surprised. Cutthroat flexed his hands, set his claws into the next seam, and pulled down. Metal screamed again. His claws barely scraped the finish on Sixshot's armor, but that was part of the appeal. His teammates didn’t let him do this. They would have prudently taken a step away from him if they saw the unhinged glow lighting his optics right now. 

Cutthroat twisted his claws into a new seam and _yanked_ , pulling so hard the chair scooted across the floor toward him. Sparks showered down to the floor, raining into his lap. He cackled and did it again, ripping at impenetrable armor in manic joy. 

It would have torn anyone else apart. Sixshot just made a small noise, blinking rapidly. The claws found a split in his armor and delved in, scratching futile screeching tracks over the ununtrium coating on his protoform. His vents huffed when the sharp tip of one claw tore through a repair patch. The clumsy weld had closed a gap on the back of his knee. Cutthroat sliced through it.

The pain was quick, there and gone again, almost immediately erased by the skittering tracery of clawtips scraping down his shin. Sixshot’s powerplant thrummed a step higher, and a thin wash of lubricant chased the charge down his port.

Cutthroat could smell it. He could smell the building warmth and hear the desperate whirr of overworked fans as Sixshot heated under his claws. His hands tensed, fingers spread on dented, dinged armor. This was Sixshot under his hands. Sixshot the Phase Sixer, weapon and warrior.

Cutthroat threw his entire body behind the effort to dig his claws through, to cause _damage_ , to tear and rip and _destroy_ the indestructible.

Metal cried out in protest. Something snapped. Sixshot's vocalizer surrendered a muted noise more static than word.

The Terrorcon held his claws up to watch pink energon trickle down. The snarling grind that came out of his vocalizer had nothing of sanity about it. His tongue snaked out to lick a finger. More energon pumped out to replace what he lapped up. He smiled up at Sixshot, teeth limned in fuel, and sucked the end of his snapped-off claw into his mouth.

Sixshot stared down at him blankly. He didn't seem to know what to do, which was fine. Cutthroat took his finger out of his mouth and used the raw tip to draw a wandering line of fuel and repair nanites down the inside of the Phase Sixer's leg. Sixshot's legs pulled against the towline, either pushing into his hand or trying to close.

Liquid nitrogen did no more damage to Sixshot's armor than Cutthroat's claws, but it froze the dripping line into a solid sheet of ice. Cutthroat dragged his claws across it, purring in far down in his chest. The ice shattered, and frost sloughed off metal as his claws drew scratches through it. Sloppy lines of his fluids painted designs up one leg and down the other, and the canister sprayed over them, turning them to ice. The scraping glide of his claws through it felt incredible. Destruction, the feel of living metal under his claws as he raked through something solid and resisting. For a while, at least, he could leave his mark even upon a mighty Phase Sixer.

A short while, as Sixshot’s armor grew hotter the longer he played with his claws and the liquid nitrogen. The frost melted away quicker, and the lines disappeared. 

Cutthroat snickered and screeched his claws through the mess of melted fluids left covering Sixshot's legs. "So much for cleaning you up."

"I'm not really complaining," Sixshot said. Level as his voice was, he sounded slightly off-kilter. "This is," his hips rolled up into the claws crawling into the joints, "nnmmm. Your version of no hands. Interesting."

More snickering. Cutthroat found a cable deep in the pelvic joint and kneaded it, testing his claws against the metal. His wrist not-so-accidentally brushed along the bitty movements of port latchkeys searching for a cable to attach to. The inside of his forearm rasped over a primed, ready cable.

Sixshot whimpered, high in the back of his throat.

The wave of stench announced Blot's arrival even before the door opened. "Whoa," he said. "Hun-Grrr said cleaning duty, not, errrrr, this. He said to help you clean."

"Go file a complaint. Truth in advertising or something."

"Go frag a chair." Things clattered to the floor as Blot dropped his cleaning supplies. "I want in."

Sixshot drew a stuttered breath and blinked over Cutthroat's head. "Wish granted. Cable in," he said, but his hips pushed up. It was almost a plea.

One Cutthroat instantly vetoed. "No cables, no ports, no fingers. Hun-Grrr said so."

"Uh," Blot said. "Okay."

"Why **not**?" Sixshot demanded at the same moment. From anyone else, it would have been a whine. Cutthroat graciously labeled it something more macho for the honor of the Decepticons. "For Pit's sake, why won't you just **connect**?!"

Cutthroat surged to his feet, hand around Sixshot's throat to slam him back in the chair. His nervousness was long gone. "Because you're not the one giving orders," he said. “Got it?”

Sixshot shuddered, thighs wrenching against the towline as he fought his knees apart another inch. “Got it.”

This. This explained why Hun-Grrr was so slagging smug. It wasn't interfacing Sixshot. It was getting off on Sixshot getting off on being controlled. 

"Whoa," Blot repeated softly.

"Where’s your lucky prybar?" Cutthroat asked without looking away from Sixshot’s optics. The optic sensors behind the cracked lenses were blown wide in arousal, and they reset as Cutthroat hooked his claws into the tubes of Sixshot's throat.

"In here somewhere. Why?" Rustles and clinks came from Blot's direction, along with an awful reek. 

Cutthroat was used to it. "Think you can get his mask off?"

"With a **prybar**?" Blot seemed as shocked as Sixshot looked. 

"We've tried everything else."

"It could tear up his face!"

"So?" Cutthroat closed his hand, gently pressing the tips of his claws in. Sixshot hesitated to tip his head back, but Cutthroat rubbed a clawed thumb under his chin. Sixshot shivered and let his head fall back. "Just do it." He pinged Blot's frequency, adding, *He's kind of into us mechhandling him.*

*Oh.* A pause. *Ohhhh. I-say-you-do clanging?*

*Yep.*

*Niiiiice. What's good?* Blot asked it like they were stepping up to a buffet table. It was similar, in a way.

*Hun-Grrr made a list. Kind of boils down to if we put our hands on him, he's down to frag.*

*But no plugging.*

*No plugging.*

*Fraaaaag.* Blot bitched bitterly about that over internal commlink as he searched for his prybar. Once he found it, he came over. Taking the Phase Sixer's chin in hand, he turned him this way and that, studying the broken clasps that had foiled them so far. “This is probably gonna hurt, just so’s you know.”

Sixshot tamely let him do whatever he wanted. The more Blot poked and prodded, the more his optics dimmed. Cutthroat stroked the back of his fingers down an exposed wire cluster, and a full-body shiver ran through the larger mech.

Cutthroat agreed with Blot's complaining for the most part, but this was pretty good on its own. Besides, the rules didn't say anything about mouths. He slipped his claws out of Sixshot's neck and transformed. 

Sixshot blinked hazily down at him, but Blot impatiently turned his face back up. "Stop moving."

Cutthroat flapped his wings in amusement at Sixshot's start. Hadn't expected Blot to take command, eh? A lot of people forgot that there was more to Blot than the reek. He might not be the smartest Decepticon in any given base, but the Intelligence Division had him on their list as a passive interrogator. He got stuck on guard duty to soften up Autobot prisoners trapped in the cells with his Blot-stench. It was a uniquely effective torture.

So Blot had plenty of experience ordering prisoners around. Sixshot did as he was told, somewhat taken aback and, as the port in front of Cutthroat's optics attested, all in favor of getting ordered around.

Cutthroat gave them a minute to get going on the prybar. He wanted Sixshot distracted.

After Blot had the prybar levered under one edge of Sixshot's mask, inching it up, Cutthroat hopped forward. He kept his wings spread for balance. He'd never done this before. In theory, it should work. He just hadn't had a partner big enough to try this out on.

He nosed his beak ever-so-carefully between Sixshot's thighs, seeking. The way his optics were placed in beast mode, he couldn’t see well right in front of himself. He had to find what he wanted by scent and heat, sliding the pointed tip of his beak along thigh armor, into the seam of the joint, and out onto the pelvic armor. Warm, warmer, warmer yet, hot, oh...found it!

Sixshot made a strangled, thready noise, and his hips jerked. Cutthroat hissed at the sudden move, afraid the sharp edge of his beak would slice through the port rim. Instead, his beak slid _in_.

*Aw **right**!* Blot crowed into the team frequency, cheering him on. The others pinged, curious, and Blot transmitted a live feed. Rippersnapper and Sinnertwin swore creatively, because of course Hun-Grrr had sent them out on a salvage mission when quite clearly they needed to be right there, right now, no no, don't stop, keep going, just keep the video coming!

Cutthroat chittered a laugh, beak clicking. 

Gasping, Sixshot bucked into the weird massage in his port. "Cutthroat!"

"Hold **still** ," Blot barked, but even the towline couldn't keep Sixshot's hips from riding up as a hard, thick pressure forced into his port. The thin layer of lubricant smeared on Cutthroat's beak helped, but the shallow port hadn't been meant to take something his size. Cutthroat bobbed, working his beak in and out, and Sixshot groaned. The chair creaked, swaying from the jerk of Sixshot’s hips in time with Cutthroat’s head. 

The pterodactyl could barely open his mouth enough to snake his tongue out, but he gave it a try. If nothing else, he could steal a taste of Sixshot’s port.

His tongue slithered up into port, playing among the connector prongs at the top. Sixshot’s hips froze, quivering.

A second later, an uncontrolled howl burst out of the Phase Sixer. Cutthroat prodded the tip of his tongue into the socket again. Charge zapped him, electricity burning his mouth. Smoke filled his throat, but Sixshot keened an incoherent prayer to Primus as the backward-pointed barbs on his tongue dragged at the socket prongs, stripping metal and charge to bring the burnt copper _taste_ of Sixshot back into Cutthroat's mouth. Sixshot thrashed against the towline, frantic to urge him further in.

But Blot jogged Cutthroat's wing, saying his name with increasing urgency. *Cutthroat. Cutthroat. Cutthroat Cutthroat CutthroatCutthroatCutthroat **Cutthroat!** *

*What?!*

*You have to see this!*

He twisted his head, corkscrewing his beak up into Sixshot's port. Sixshot’s fans inhale a sobbing breath, and he wanted to hear what sound would come out on the exhale. *I'm kind of busy -- *

*Cutthroat, **_you have to see this!_** * Blot physically pulled him out, and Sixshot's latchkeys clenched futilely against the slippery curve of his beak as he went.

"No!" The Phase Sixer slumped in his bonds, shoulders heaving as he panted for cool air. Splattered puddles of leaked fuel and hydraulic fluid had collected under the chair by now, dripping from his wounds, but neither Terrorcon cared about the mess.

They didn't even notice it. Their optics were glued to Sixshot's face.

Their teammates pinged them repeatedly. *Blot, turn the video back on!*

*This isn't funny, ya bolt-dolts!*

*Blot! Blot, respond!*

*Cutthroat, make Blot -- *

Cutthroat transformed, absently shutting down his commlink as he did. His hand rose without conscious thought. "Blot..." He walked his fingers up Sixshot's chest. "Blot, can you...y'know..."

His teammate sounded as strained as he did. "On it."

Sixshot gave them a haggard look, the look of a mech fragged to the edge, and opened his newly-exposed mouth. Maybe he was going to demand Cutthroat get his beak back to business. Maybe he was going to plead they keep going. Cutthroat slipped two fingers in before anything came out.

Behind him, Blot transformed and landed heavily on his back, greater beastmode mass forcing him to his knees. Cutthroat crashed down, but his fingers stayed knuckle-deep in the hot liquid heat of Sixshot's mouth. Whatever Sixshot tried to say came out garbled nonsense as claws dragged down the middle of his tongue. It curled around them, and Cutthroat kept his optics on the scowling curve of the lips around his fingers as Blot mounted.

Funny thing about beastmodes: all the equipment stayed the same, but the _placement_ changed, and nobody without a beastmode or a degree in xenobiology would understand the code-level instincts that dictated its use. Cutthroat's port was slicked and ready, but his latchkeys flexed wide open. They refused to close even as Blot grunted, driving his cable in. The plug at the tip of his cable slipped right back out of Cutthroat's socket. Blot lunged forward again. A split second of connection, and gone. In and out, again and again, a grunting rhythm that rocked Cutthroat on his knees.

It pushed his fingers further into Sixshot's mouth, too. The Phase Sixer worked his lips, trying to spit them out, but Cutthroat thrust them deeper. His claws scraped something at the back, probably the throat intake, and Sixshot reset his optics. 

"Suck," Cutthroat said hoarsely.

Sixshot curled his lip in distaste and _chomped_.

Cutthroat yelped happily at the pinch. Sixshot was too weak. He didn't have the hydraulic pressure to shear through armor, but he ground his teeth into the fingers until they dented. Cutthroat's fingers hurt, but he shoved a third in, worming it into Sixshot's mouth eagerly. The chomping bite Sixshot gave it made the Terrorcon jounce, moaning. Blot had to scramble to stay on his back, rhythm faltering. The thrusts picked up, faster this time.

Cutthroat's vocalizer spat static, but his optics stayed on Sixshot's face. "Suck, slaggit!"

"Wht hh fnnph iph **rowhr** wiphh ewe?" Sixshot asked around his fingers.

"Nothing! Just suck!"

"Nnph!"

"Yes!"

The door opened, but a full brigade of Autobots could have trooped through for all Cutthroat cared. Sixshot gave the door an annoyed look, flustered and overheated, but his optics brightened in shock at whatever he witnessed in the door.

Cutthroat almost sprawled in the Phase Sixer's lap as the next thrust into his port hit in a resounding _clang_. Oh yeah, he knew what that was. "About time you got here!"

"Primus, that's hot," one of Sinnertwin's heads said from his elbow. The other rested its chin on Sixshot's chest and openly ogled. "You gotta suck. Really. You have no idea what that's doing to us."

Sixshot eyed him. 

"Come on, just once?" 

The tongue that had been pushing at Cutthroat’s fingers stopped. Thoughts turned over, humming through Sixshot’s helm. Sinnertwin turned his best cyberpuppy look on him, cute pleading in stereo. “Please?”

Sixshot hesitated, but he must have figured that there was no reason not to. Slowly, his lips closed around the fingers in his mouth. Sinnertwin's head perked up, optics intent. Blot breathed in hot bursts on the back of Cutthroat’s neck. Cutthroat just stared, not daring to move.

The teeth locked on his fingers reluctantly opened, and Sixshot gave a small, showy suck, head bobbing forward and back.

Cutthroat squawked. Sixshot's optics flicked to him. Another suck, slower this time.

"Harder!" Blot begged, squirming.

"I'll give you harder, ya ingrate." Cutthroat shoved back in time to meet Sinnertwin's thrust forward, and Blot yipped as Cutthroat's port and Sinnertwin's cable sandwiched him between them. 

"Keep your hands and legs inside the fragging, folks," the head at Cutthroat's elbow said, and the other giggled -- _giggled_ \-- as Sinnertwin bent his necks, nosing under Cutthroat's chest. Two heads, two mouths.

Look, Hun-Grrr. No hands.

Cutthroat clawed at Sixshot's chest in attempt to pull himself up, fingers suddenly sucked in as Sixshot found his motivation to cater to their weird request. That was a lot of motivation. That was two tongues worth of motivation, laving over and into neglected port and cable as Sinnertwin dove between his legs. The rough tongues licking the charge out of him were nice enough on their own, but the horn on each of Sinnertwin's snouts just...about...fit. Sinnertwin was going to give it a good try, anyway. 

Sixshot dropped his head, throat working as he sucked frantically on Cutthroat's fingers. His thighs trembled, and red optics dimmed to black. More feet stampeded into the room, but Sinnertwin simply lifted his tail and said a muffled word of gratitude as Rippersnapper slid in. This couldn't have gone smoother if they'd practiced. All aboard the fragtrain to Sixshot.

Hun-Grrr strode past the grunting, humping line, however. Smacking Cutthroat's hand aside, he curled his forefinger under Sixshot’s chin and lifted. He ignored Cutthroat's protest. He even ignored Sixshot's writhing. He could admire tied-up Sixshot all day, but right now he had optics only for that face.

His thumb ran over Sixshot's lower lip. Cute. He hadn't expected cute. The most dangerous weapon in the Decepticon arsenal didn't look like he'd know what end of a gun to point where.

Sixshot mouthed after his thumb, nipping at it in time with the wet sounds of Sinnertwin's tongues, and Hun-Grrr laughed low. Cutthroat had had the right idea. Those were lips he wanted to see wrapped around all sorts of things.

He bent down to claim the first kiss from them. A grating shriek came from the other Terrorcons, but he waved a dismissal with his free hand. Shush. It was his right as team leader. Besides, they'd get their turn after he was done.

Sixshot’s mouth opened under his.

It might be a while.

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
**End**  
**[* * * * *]**


	4. Pt. 4

**Title:** Portion Control  
**Warning:** Sex, aftercare, foodplay.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** IDW, sequel to _Wolfsong_  
**Characters:** Sixshot, Terrorcons  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Eabevella has this slight obsession with Sixshot/Terrorcons, and then a prompt was given on Tumblr for “Robots sticking fingers in other robot mouths + Reverse harems, like a bunch of associated robots all rolling about a single other individual.” Also based off of Shibara's picture of Sixshot: http://shibara.tumblr.com/post/129628314164/ok-so-ive-been-working-on-this-piece-of-utter .

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Four**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, this is good.” Rippersnapper sounded oddly breathless. He reclined on the floor, less relaxed than seeking support from the mech behind him. Sinnertwin had one arm slung around his waist to pump at his cord, hot and hard all over again as they both watched. They were utterly fixated on someone else’s hand, despite the rhythmic squeeze of Sinnertwin’s fist. “You just keep doing what you’re doing.”

Blot stopped attempting to lick and crane his head to watch at the same time. Watching obviously took precedence, no matter Sinnertwin’s growled protest. “He’s going to murder you,” he predicted. He was dumb, but he wasn’t that dumb. Nobody was dumb enough to think they’d escape this without consequence.

“Totally worth it,” Hun-Grrr said, ending the argument before it could begin. “Besides, Cutthroat can fly. Extended patrol for the next hundred years isn’t a bad deal if it keeps him out of reach, right? Right.” He nodded. Nobody disagreed. They’d have accepted any excuse to keep the show going.

Hun-Grrr flung his leg over Blot’s head, pushing him back down to work between Sinnertwin’s legs. He took care not to block the view, and Blot kept watching. Once he had his tongue back where it belonged, Sinnertwin’s other hand went back to what it should have been doing all along. The slick plunge of fingers into Hun-Grrr’s port came in perfect time with his own hand working his erect cord. He took a moment to play with the connector at the tip as Cutthroat turned his hand, claws glistening through the thread-thin spill of energon. Frag, that was hot!

Foodplay always got his engines going. The droplets of energon dripping to the floor in a messy patter rode his hips up in need even as he drew big draughts of air in to gulp like the fuel he wanted to swallow. Foodplay plus Sixshot made the whole scene 900% more scrumptious. Hun-Grrr knew he was the most food-oriented mech of the unit, but they all had a thing for Sixshot. Feeding Sixshot had just shot to the top of all their kink lists.

“Do that again,” someone groaned, nearly pleading, and Cutthroat bit sharp teeth into his lower lip as he obeyed. His teammates weren’t the only ones getting off on this hard enough to stall out. He thrust his upturned fingers into the drizzle of energon, letting it part over the knuckles, dribble down the backs, pour off clawtips onto the floor and into Sixshot’s mouth. It made a warm, wet flood, and Sixshot’s tongue lapped it off the back of his fingers in slow swipes.

From the dimness of Sixshot’s optics, he honestly thought the mech didn’t realized what was going on. Maybe -- and Cutthroat knew it was a Terrorcon fantasy to hope this, but who cared -- Sixshot didn’t mind. It was pretty unlikely. Tying Sixshot to the chair had turned out fun and kinky as a tangled slinky, but it was past time to have set him loose. The Terrorcons had a rudimentary sense of responsibility, but they knew what they should have done. Sixshot needed to be eased down into a berth to recharge. He looked exhausted by the overloads wrung out of him. The puddles of fluids his damaged frame left on the floor stood evidence to what level of care he needed right now. The Terrorcons should have descended on him on an emergency huddle after that last overload, when his hitched breathing completely stopped as he shivered and shuddered through climax. They hadn’t been sure his ventilation system would even restart for a minute there.

Instead of rushing him to the medibay, they’d kept their desperate, frenetic group-frag toward their own overloads, visors and optics locked on him as the tension knotted in their guts like a quivering trigger. Sixshot’s first gasped breath had flipped it, sending a cascade of relief-turned-screaming-pleasure through them in a long chain.

It’d taken them a while to shake themselves loose of each other. Cutthroat had been crushed under everyone but Hun-Grrr, and Sinnertwin had embedded one set of teeth in their commander’s port rim in the midst of the flashing jolt of overload. Hun-Grrr’s pained grunts as they pried those loose had nothing on Blot’s howl of protest from the pain of dislodging two sets of prongs from his socket. Sinnertwin could deliver one Pit of a shock through his dual connectors when he shoved them both up a mech’s port, but _ow_.

Sixshot hadn’t been entirely conscious. He’d watched the wincing group stand up to surround him, but his optics had been as dazed as they were now. They saw but didn’t register anything around him. The Terrorcons had worn him out.

Cutthroat had gone for the energon, knowing what Sixshot needed, but somehow he’d managed to skip a step in between interfacing Sixshot’s bolts loose and taking care of him afterward. He kind of just didn’t want to untie the mech yet. 

Not that the other Terrorcons were objecting. “Dibs on the floor.”

“Not until I’ve rolled in it.”

“Oh, Primus, dibs on you.”

“Can I change dibs? I want in on that.”

“Dibs on cleaning him up.”

There was a pause, then three impressed, “Oooo, yes.”

Sixshot didn’t respond to the dibs being called. He tiredly lapped at Cutthroat’s fingers, exhausted and winding down. Cutthroat licked his lips and turned his hand again, letting that tongue delve into the joints. He liked this. Rust and iron, did he like this. Sleepy, contented, trusting dependence was a look he didn’t even know how to attach the correct words to when he saw it, but the long sighed breaths between swallows didn’t need to be named. Sixshot was all but purring as he cycled down in the afterglow, and it woke a burning pressure in Cutthroat’s gut that didn’t have the urgent hunger of lust. 

The cube eventually ran out, the last of it flowing into Sixshot’s open mouth. Rippersnapper’s whimpered appreciation of the show had become pants and moans, and Cutthroat wasn’t doing much better. Sinnertwin jerked through overload, hips snapping urgently up into Blot’s face. Hun-Grrr growled answer as he held Sinnertwin’s hand in place so he could finish, bucking on stiff fingers even as Blot clambered up to straddle him. 

Cutthroat ignored their frantic coupling. He knelt between spread knees, energon-slippery hand pulling Sixshot’s helm down, and the Terrorcons whined as a group as he stole an awkwardly gentle kiss from the Phase Sixer. Embarrassment ran a warm flush under his armor, but slag that. Let them watch. He did what he wanted. He’d punch them in the faces later if they gave him grief over it.

Dim optics blinked at him as he reluctantly pulled away from the sweet taste of fresh fuel and fragged-senseless mech. Sixshot smiled a sparkstoppingly pained, happy smile. “This is nice,” he slurred, obviously not processing straight, and Cutthroat felt his insides melt. 

“D’aww,” somebody said in a hushed voice, and then started coughing in the most uncomfortable _‘I didn’t say that scrap out loud, nope, sure didn’t’_ macho denial ever.

Cutthroat was definitely going to have to punch everybody in the face later. 

**[* * * * *]**


	5. Pt. 5

**Title:** Portion Control  
 **Warning:** Decepticons, punishment, advertisement parodies, jealousy, and people who don’t know what they want or how to get it.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW, sequel to _Wolfsong_.  
 **Characters:** Sixshot, Terrorcons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Eabevella has this slight obsession with Sixshot/Terrorcons, and then people kept giving me prompts. 

**[* * * * *]**   
_Part Five_   
**[* * * * *]**

_"Houchi Play”_

If Sixshot had been at full strength, Hun-Grrr wouldn’t have done it. Correction: he wouldn’t have been _able_ to do it. The Terrorcons didn’t have anything on board their dilapidated shuttle that could restrain a Phase Sixer at full power. Whole planets didn’t have the means.

If Sixshot had been at full strength, HunGrrr wouldn’t have wanted to do it. The point would have been moot. Ignoring one or another of the Terrorcons wouldn’t have bothered them. Sixshot at full strength had no reason to deign to notice any of them, so any attention granted to any single one of the unit would have thrilled the whole group. 

However, Sixshot wasn’t at full strength. The Terrorcons wouldn’t have quibbled if he’d wanted to shun Sinnertwin back when he could pick and choose their company, but now he was their guest. Their charity case. Their idol and mech on a pillar, but he was in their shuttle at their sufferance at the moment. He was a hobbling invalid dependent on their goodwill, and when he started ignoring one of his saviors, well, he didn’t have the right or ability to play those kind of games. In that light, his behavior was just plain _rude_.

So Cutthroat found a towline somewhere, and Hun-Grrr hauled it into the bunkroom, Blot squishing a particularly noxious scent of disapproval behind the Terrorcon commander’s right shoulder. Sixshot looked up in dawning disbelief as they squared off in front of him. Credit to the wounded mech’s intelligence, he didn’t ask who the restraints were for. He didn’t even resist the two of them dragging him to the corner. 

Standing tall and proud as he could, he _did_ ask, “What have I done?” like a soldier pushed into the stockade in the middle of a duty shift.

Hun-Grrr didn’t play games with anything but food. Sixshot was supposed to know what he was being punished for, and why this particular punishment. “Ignored Sinnertwin,” he said shortly. “You’ve been intentionally ignoring him.” 

Sixshot’s optics flicked toward Blot, apprehension flashing through the cracked glass, but Blot was busy coiling the towline in preparation. Hun-Grrr darted his hand out to catch the taller Decepticon’s chin, an act he’d never tried and Sixshot hadn’t expected if the startled jolt meant anything. Forcefully turning Sixshot’s face back down toward himself took a bit of effort before Sixshot recovered and consciously submitted to the mechhandling. Actually, from the faint wisp of heat winding out of his vents, it was less submission than melting. 

Right. Hun-Grrr added another note to the hidden document on the shuttle’s shared drive. Sixshot really did get off on being pushed around. 

Which made this punishment even better. “You haven’t been insulting him directly,” Hun-Grrr told the wide optics looking down at him, “but we’re not stupid. We know what it means when somebody turns their back on one of us.” Attack the turned back and share the body afterward, but not in this case. Hun-Grrr had a learning experience in mind.

Sixshot almost looked at Blot again, and Hun-Grrr firmed his grip. Good to know _that_ lesson had gotten through. “You won’t be taking over his duties. I want you to experience what it’s like to be ignored in the middle of a crowd.”

Sixshot wasn’t stupid, either. He blinked a few times as if trying to wrap his mind around the idea of Terrorcon justice, but he’d seen the towline. It gave a pretty good idea of what was coming. The Phase Sixer’s broken fans tried to accelerate, but worry sparked in his optics.

When Hun-Grrr let him go, Sixshot obediently didn’t move. Hun-Grrr took a moment to ride the swell of satisfaction having his orders obeyed always brought. Mm. Power high.

“We’re gonna be paying **special** attention to Sinnertwin the next couple days,” Blot said into the staredown, and while that betrayed how long this punishment would take, the blurted comment was worth it for Sixshot’s sudden comprehension. 

He cast a quick look around the empty bunks, then glanced at Hun-Grrr to check he was on the right train of thought. Hun-Grrr bared his teeth at him, and Sixshot winced. Ignored all orgy long. That…truly was an effective punishment.

After a moment’s hesitation, his shoulders slumped. He offered his wrists meekly.

Blot gleefully knotted the towline around them, reinforced cable hissing as he wound and twisted it up Sixshot’s forearms to hold them forward at a stiff angle. Sixshot tugged at the knots, but he couldn’t tear through this towline. Brute strength wasn’t up to the task. That ninja training of his might let him weasel out of the bonds, but that’s why Blot was here. Experience with squirming prisoners had him whipping the towline around Sixshot in a thoroughly professional manner, turning the Phase Sixer briskly this way and that.

“Sit down,” he said with a shove to the middle of Sixshot’s chest, and the tall mech folded jerkily to the floor, flinching as joints stuck and crumpled armor caught. Blot showed no mercy as he planted a foot on Sixshot’s midriff and leaned down to lace the towline between thighs and ankles. A tiny noise squeaked through of the Phase Sixer’s careful control. Blot winked at him. “Get used to it. You’re gonna be here a while.”

Hot air blew helplessly out of Sixshot’s wide-open vents in short, panting bursts. Hun-Grrr raised a brow ridge at how long Blot took on what looked like unnecessarily decorative knotwork tying Sixshot knee to ankles, but he said nothing. The show was worth the wait.

By the time Blot finished with Sixshot, he couldn’t move but was still trying his best to arch into the Terrorcon’s hands. Static crackled softly in his throat.

*”Gag?”* Blot asked, but Hun-Grrr could see the hunger in him as if it were his own.

*”No,”* he said. They turned on their heels to leave the bunkroom. *”I want him able to beg.”*

**[* * * * *]**

_"Terrorcons teaching Sixshot cuddling”_

**[* * * * *]**

It was a little painful just how difficult it was.

Sixshot laid down under them easily enough. That was hot, but it wasn’t always about fragging. Sometimes, when Sinnertwin nudged him to lay down or Rippersnapper crawled on top of him, they weren’t looking for surrender. He did that without question, giving in to what he thought they wanted. He’d lay back in silent obedience, hands coming up to rest above his helm. There was no tension to it, but there was purpose. His hands opened, fingers gently curled against the head of the berth in readiness to grab hold for leverage. His arms bent, casual but prepared. 

But there was no laziness to it. Sixshot didn’t relax under them, and it was frustrating. It made the Terrorcons ache, and they didn’t understand why, so they went out and were horrible to something sentient until they could figure how to handle it.

As per usual, it fell to Hun-Grrr to fix things. He took the direct method. “Bring your arms down.”

Sixshot looked at him blankly. After a second’s hesitation, he bent his arms, the back of his hands sliding slowly down to rest on either side of his helm. The Terrorcons liked him like that, too, and Hun-Grrr took a moment to appreciate the picture of Sixshot, Phase Sixer, lying in his berth with hands up in open surrender to his will. 

It was a pretty picture. Usually it would trigger lust, but Hun-Grrr was tired. They’d already clanged twice today, and he’d spent the rest of the day trying to find shuttle parts. What he wanted was -- something Sixshot had no idea how to give him, apparently.

“Further down. At your sides,” he ordered, and Sixshot squinted at him as he obeyed. “There. Now.” Hun-Grrr took one of Sixshot’s hands and twisted on the berth, rolling over Sixshot to end up on his side facing the wall, the mech’s arm draped over his waist. “Hold me.”

Sixshot awkwardly shifted around behind him. “How?”

Hun-Grrr pulled on his arm, impatient. “Get over here, and I’ll do the rest.” 

Hot, injured mech spooned up behind him, just slightly stiffer than a board, and the Terrorcon leader sighed. Sixshot’s confusion was kind of pathetic, but explaining what they wanted hadn’t gotten anywhere. This was going to be an uncomfortable night, but maybe it would get the idea across. They had to start somewhere, anyway. 

He tugged Sixshot’s arm up until he could hold it against his chest, trapping the Phase Sixer in place by the power of snuggling. “Good enough. Time to recharge.”

Sixshot, if anything, stiffened further. “Like this?”

“Yes.”

Silence filled the bunk room as Sixshot thought that over. Hun-Grrr could almost hear him come to a conclusion, and the world suddenly flipped around him as the arm he held slammed him down onto the berth. Sixshot loomed over him, confident again, but Hun-Grrr thunked the back of his head against the berth, exasperated. Argh. Another thing that would be hot under any other circumstance, but seriously? This was getting old. Sixshot was smelting hot even injured to the Pit and back, but he knew exactly two ways to interface: total surrender or total domination. Cuddling without a frag caused some kind of short circuit in his head, Hun-Grrr was almost ready to swear it.

“No,” he said firmly, pointing a finger at the totally hot but absolutely frustrating mech holding him down. Bad Sixshot; no sex. “Recharge.”

Sixshot hesitated, looking confused. Hun-Grrr held onto his frustrated scowl even as a knee nudged between his thighs.

It was going to be a long night.

**[* * * * *]**

_"Super Lip - http://eabevella.tumblr.com/post/154938401691/inspired-by-kanebos-testimo-ii-lipstick”_

**[* * * * *]**

Some of the things the Autobot had imported to Cybertron from that ‘Earth’ planet were annoying, like the rainbow-propelled four-legged mammal GIF and song that had somehow become everyone’s default screensaver.

Other imports were far more entertaining.

“ -- don’t even know how it got way out here much less in our stuff, but this is the best parody I’ve ever seen. Here, here, take one!” Rippersnapper pushed one of the small items into Hun-Grrr’s hands as the Terrorcon leader walked in. “Take two. We got like a hundred of ‘em. Wait, is this from the raid on the waystation?” He turned the larger shipping container around looking for an address. “It’s addressed to Swerve from PellMell Custom Graphics via, uh, E-art-h.” 

The planet name sounded new until Hun-Grrr saw it written on the address. “It’s pronounced ‘Earth.’”

“Yeah, whatever.” Rippersnipper didn’t really care about the planet of origin, anyway, just the hilariously apt labels this Swerve guy had paid to put on the things. He scooped another couple of boxes out of the container for Blot, who appeared to have eaten the ones he’d been holding when Hun-Grrr walked in.

Cutthroat scowled at his own handful of colorful boxes. Just this once, his disgust covered puzzlement instead of the usual anger. “Who grabbed this box, anyway?”

Blot bit through the box and thing inside with relish. “I did! Thought they were paint samples, but they’re organic!” Whatever was in the boxes sounded crunchy. And organic-derived, which was interesting.

Hun-Grrr didn’t get why Rippersnapper was laughing his aft off, however. Bemused, he turned the tiny rectangular boxes around in his hands while Sinnertwin peered around both of Rippersnapper’s shoulders at the advertisement that had him so riled up. One head started chuckling. The other snaked closer, cocking to the side so he could get one optic up close for a better look. Meanwhile, Hun-Grrr’s claws made short work of the shiny paper box to reveal the crunchy filling.

It was a tube. A bullet of some kind? He glanced at Blot, who had -- colored teeth? What the frag?

“They’re paint for hyoomans,” Rippersnapper corrected, turning the advertisement so the rest of them could see. “The E-art-h-lings put it on their mouths to change their natural colors, I guess.”

The Terrorcons stared at the advertisement.

“That’s a hyooman?” Blot asked, almost plaintive. “I thought that was Overlord.”

Sinnertwin turned his heads toward him for an appropriately intense look of utter scorn. “Of course it’s Overlord!”

“But you said…”

“This,” Rippersnipper showed them the next page with some soft-edged bug-eyed creature on it in much the same pose, “is the original product. I dunno who Swerve is, but he’s got ball bearings of epic diameter, making a parody like this.” He and Sinnertwin sniggered in chorus. “Ain’t Overlord just the best Super Lip model you ever did see?”

Hun-Grrr could see the problem as it happened. He’d managed to get the top off the tube to find the pigment core people were evidently supposed to smear on their lips, and he looked up from studying it just in time to see Blot’s face crumple into the peculiar version of confusion only a person actively refusing to understand could pull off. 

“Yeah, he is,” Blot said loudly.

Sinnertwin’s mouths snapped shut. Rippersnapper hiccupped, surprise and giggling colliding in his throat, and his visor bulged the slightest bit. They stared in faint horror at Blot.

Blot set his jaw and glared harder. “It makes him pretty. He looks like he’s into it or maybe he’s thinking about where else to color and it’s a good ad and I don’t get why you’re laughing. **I** think he looks sexy.”

This was already plenty ridiculous, as the number of different colors Blot had eaten made his bared teeth less of a challenge than a clown show, but fate had a sadistic sense of humor when it came to screwing over the Terrorcons. Blot’s declaration of sexiness came right as Cutthroat succumbed to temptation and stuffed the lipstick tubes into his mouth, boxes and all, and shock made him choke on the mouthful now stuck in his intake. So Cutthroat was desperately hacking up flecks of pigment and couldn’t warn Hun-Grrr about the look in Sixshot’s optics as the battered Phase Sixer stopped short in the doorway behind him, thereby giving Hun-Grrr no reason not to cut short the jeering at Blot’s personal choices -- and subsequent brawl -- by stating his own opinion.

“Huh, he **is** pretty sexy. I could watch him paint his lips in this stuff all day.” Hun-Grrr sniffed the open tube as if appreciating the unusual chemical scent, but more importantly making a pointed show of support for Blot. Sinnertwin and Rippersnapper would tease Blot into a frenzy, but they would keep it to insulting mutters if it meant crossing their commander. “Maybe it’s like an appetizer. Lick it off his lips before going further, eh?”

He assumed the optics staring at him paled after picturing that.

Then quiet footsteps limped away down the corridor at his back, and Hun-Grrr turned just in time to see Sixshot disappear into the medibay. The _medibay_. Sixshot didn’t go in there unless he had to. Hoooo, mech. Not a good sign.

“Why’s **he** upset?” Blot asked. Sixshot had at least derailed him from starting a fight, but only because he didn’t understand what had just happened.

Sinnertwin exchanged a couple of looks with Rippersnapper as Cutthroat finally spat out a blob of mushed colors. “Is he jealous?” Cutthroat gasped at the same time the other two Terrorcons said, “He’s jealous,” in firm agreement with each other. Cutthroat glanced at them, nodded, then idly scooped the blob off the floor to eat as if he hadn’t just hacked it up.

Hun-Grrr rewound his own words, added in what Blot had said, and put a hand to his forehelm, sighing. “Fragging Pit.” One week without relationship drama. He’d trade this whole shuttle for just one week. If it wasn’t Sixshot snubbing one of the Terrorcons and carrying an attitude a banged-up ‘Con like him didn’t have the brawn to back up, it was one of Hun-Grrr’s own idiots making trouble. Now it appeared they had a jealous, miffed Phase Sixer on their hands.

He put out his other hand. “Give me one of each color. Blot, go get your lucky prybar. Someone find something we can put over the repairberth to make it more comfortable. One or the both of us is going to be on it for a while.”

There was a strained silence. Cutthroat stopped midchew. Rippersnapper already had a double handful of shiny boxes, but he’d stopped dead as he obviously struggled to imagine just what was going to lay them out. Blot’s jaw worked, and a line of drool leaked out the side of his mouth, but that could have been normal.

Sinnertwin grinned. “Can we watch?”

Hun-Grrr looked at him oddly. “I expect you to hold his wrists down,” he said as he spun to go corner the shuttle’s current King of Drama.

“Dibs on his ankles!” Cutthroat crowed behind him.

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
